Hashim; a Zuberi Boy

I sat –alone, confused. Waiting for answers on the floor of the Zuberi’s tent but only getting questions. Trying to get clues pertaining to the reason of my being here, I reflected back upon the happenings of this past morning.

I’d been sitting in my mother’s tent, watching to make sure the cakes did not burn as my mother, Aisha, made her weekly visit to our wise woman. Our chief had arrived with Ali, leader of the Zuberi. They both led me out of my tent and into this one, assuring me that the cakes would be attended and that my mother was informed. Then they’d left me, sitting by myself near the door of this massive cloth structure. I could find no clues to these actions from my memory of the past week either, so I turned to my surroundings; searching for any answer.

Maps covered the walls; not surprising, since the Zuberi had to have a complete knowledge of Al-Umecca’s boundaries and landmarks in order to properly report, guide, and spy. I liked geography myself, and picked up what I could whenever I could. I would have passed the time by gazing at the maps, but my curiosity of the situation was stronger than my curiosity of the world, so I continued searching. All over the floor, separating my feet from the sand, were rugs. Plain and gray, these light rugs offered nothing to me, not even beauty. Standing, I walked around to examine the table near the back. It held many papers, and might tell me the reason behind my ‘visit’ to the Zuberi’s headquarters. I crossed the distance from here to there quickly, thanks to my scrawny, but long legs. My whole body was this way, long and thin, with little muscle showing, though that was not the case. My clothes hung loosely on me, and rustled as I shuffled the papers around the table, watching for the name “Hashim”; my name. I heard someone coming, so I returned to my seat, hoping that my questions would soon be answered.

Ali and the chief entered, looking grim; a natural look for Ali (he was always grim) but the chief was kind and made you feel easy around him, so the look was awkward on his face. One of the Zuberi came with them. A nice one- Jamal. He was middle aged, funny, and had been very kind to my mother and me. I smiled to see him and stood, but my smile was not returned.

The chief, after a brief silence, began speaking, “Hashim, what would you say if we told you we’d found your father?”

 I looked straight into his eyes, my smile gone, “I’d ask how you lost him, and why you even bothered looking for that pig.”

Ali and the chief looked at each other uneasily, and Jamal just looked at the ground, his eyes unseen.

No one spoke, so I continued, “Besides, you couldn’t have found him. Jamal here told me that he has tracked my father, and he’s long gone.”

“Well he isn’t,” Ali put in, rather sharply, “In fact, he’s been closer than anyone realized.”

 Jamal winced, but I didn’t understand why he would.

“After secretly wedding your mother,” Ali continued, “He stuck around. And after you were born, he decided to lead us all on a wild goose chase for a few years. Fourteen, to be precise.”

I sighed, “Will you just bring me my father, so I can go help my mother?”

“He’s right here.” Jamal whispered, keeping his head down, but raising his eyes to look at me.

“What?”

“Your father is in this room.” Ali said, looking at me as if he was speaking in a riddle that I was supposed to know.

I stared at the three men, one at a time. Ali and the chief both had wives and children, and I’d heard that Jamal was married- though I’d never met his wife; but I haven’t seen many people in Al-Umecca, as large as it was.

I asked again, “What? You are all already married. Is he hiding under a rug somewhere? I wouldn’t be surprised if my father was a coward.” I spat out the last word, the most vile insult to a man.

Jamal’s eyes flashed fire so strong that I could sense it, although his head was still lowered. He’d known my father the best (probably the reason he was leading the search), and I guess he admired him or something, though I don’t know why he would.

He lifted his head for the first time since he’d entered the tent. “Your father is no coward. Your father left you to protect you. He did not want to watch you die an early death. Because of your birth you were doomed to a life of danger.” Jamal stepped towards me, and bent over to look me in the eyes. His voice was a whisper, his eyes were a mystery, and “It hurt your father to have such secrecy and shame thrust on your mother. It hurt your father to leave his new-born son. But he did what he felt was best. Your father left you because he loved you too much.”

I sat down hard, shaken by his outburst, though I didn’t completely comprehend what he’d said about my death, and my doom.

Quietness followed.

Ali broke it, “Hashim, your father is a part of the Zuberi.”

That made things a little better. I admired the Zuberi- elite warriors who lived dangerous lives, guarding Al-Umecca’s borders. But just being one of them wouldn’t excuse my father.

“Accordingly,” the chief picked up where Ali left off, “You must begin your training tomorrow.”

I did a double take at the seeming jump in logic, “What?!”

“The laws are very clear,” the chief continued, “The Zuberi warriors may only be replaced by their sons, whom they personally train.”

I was silent, in shock. I’d have to listen to my father? Train with him? Work with him?

The chief was still talking, “Training usually begins at ten, but your four year delay is obviously out of our control. Jamal will train you.”

Understanding, confusion, and anger flared up. My void which had been empty all those years almost burst into flame as I looked into Jamal’s face. The face of my father.

I turned and left.

I didn’t see Jamal’s proud head drop down once more. I didn’t see his eyes fill with tears. 

****** ******

"Did you know?!" I demanded of my mother, as I stormed into our tent. "Did you know who my father was?"

Startled, she looked up at me from where she was preparing dinner. "What did you say, Hashim?"

"I know who my father is. Do you know? Or will I spoil the surprise" my voice was dripping with malice, and I let it; forgetting all that my mother had taught me.

"Oh, I see," she said, in a lowly, yet strong voice, "And you are angry at Jamal? You are thinking of all those years he has hid himself from you? You aren't thinking of what pain he must be in?"

I turned my anger on my mother, "What pain? He wasn't the one who was abandoned! He wasn't rejected by other boys! He wasn't the one who had to watch his mother be ridiculed! What pain could he feel?! He's worse than the raider Qismat."

My mother stood, and came to me. She put her hands on my shoulders in a gesture I knew well. She was about to say something I wouldn't like, and was going to keep me from running from it, as she had when she first told me about my father.

"I will tell you of his pain," she said, still speaking with powerful calm, "His was the pain of a father, unable to help his son. His was the pain of a husband, unable to nurture his wife, unable to hold her close and love her. His was the pain of knowing that if he ever showed his love for you, you could die."

"Why?!" I demanded, "What's all this about me dying? Why do I have a doom if my father is a Zuberi?"

"I will tell you later," she began to turn away from me, "Later when you are calm, and full of food." Returning to make supper, she asked me to get some brush from the hills for a fire.

I left without a word.

 ****** ******

I stamped around the hills, looking around for the scarce, scraggly bushes that supplied fuel for our fires. I didn't understand my own feelings; I hadn't prepared myself for this. Moodily, I kept on walking on blindly, unaware of time or surroundings; I don't think I was even gathering wood, just trying to sort out my emotions: hate, rage, confusion-- but there was something else, too, and that was what I was trying to figure out. The bad feelings seemed to be lessening now that I had time to think about ... Jamal. I tried something I hadn't done before- I tried to think of him. I thought of all the time he'd spent with my mother and me. I thought of how it must be, to be dragged before his son to admit to something he wished he could be. I thought of how I'd left him, and what he must be feeling right at this moment.

Not enjoying the suffering and pain on this side of the earth, the sun seemed to set a little more quickly, and I was left without light, for the moon was dark, and the stars were clouded.

For the first time, I took notice of my surroundings. Without landmarks, the sand offered me no clues to my whereabouts. All of my studies in geography would not help me, even if I knew 10 times more than I did now.

I was lost.

I turned around, and started walking toward where I thought the village was, but I couldn't be sure. I was exhausted emotionally and physically. I was still coping with the news of the day. It was too much. I checked to make sure that I was alone. Then I keeled over and cried.

How long it was, I do not know. Time and tears slowed down. Thoughts scrambled. Pictures floated and bumped in my head. The largest picture was Jamal; trying to make me understand. As my tears abated and my thoughts organized, the pictures became clearer. I watched them. Gradually, Jamal's face changed. He was searching for someone, someone dear to him. I don't know how I knew this, but I did, and I could see it.

I drifted to sleep with this image in my head. For some reason, it was comforting, and I fell asleep in the sand.

****** ******

Moving.

Still.

Water. Parched to wet.

Moving.

Still.

Drops on face.

Blurry face. Light streaming in. I see dark hair. 

I'm on my bed. I'm waking up. I fell asleep? Oh yes, on the sand.

How did I get here? I look around. I see shady mother, breakfast, rugs, Jamal. Father.

My eyes snapped back into focus on his face, as he gazed lovingly at my mother. Father.

That's right. Jamal is no longer just a friendly Zuberi visiting every once in awhile. This is his tent now. I have to live with him. I have to train with him. Every day.

Starting to move, I attracted my parent's attention. Parents. I had both of them now. I felt awkward around Jamal. What should I do after my outburst yesterday? Had I forgiven him? I just didn't know.

My mother came over and caressed my head. "Are you okay?"

"We were both worried sick" Jamal said.

"I'm fine." I said shortly. Looking at my mother, I added "I'm sorry I worried you. I was lost in thought and got lost in the desert."

She smiled at my words, but it was a smile of sorrow, since I hadn't included Jamal in the apology.

"Hashim," I heard the friendly, strong voice, but busied myself changing shirts instead of looking at him.

"Yes, ... aba?" I said, hesitantly, not knowing how Jamal would respond. Glancing to the side, I saw him beaming at me.

"Hashim," he started again, "Your mother says that we can begin training outside after breakfast. We'll do your indoor studies after lunch, and go outside again to study the night."

My whole day would be filled! I'd be with him all day! I still didn't know if I liked him or not. I didn't understand my cold gestures, nor my friendly words. I didn't understand anything.

Fortunately, I didn't have time to think, as my training began. In the morning, I would work on blocking my father's kicks and punches, until my sweat percolated through my shirt. Other exercises were jumping, moving unseen, basic knife thrusts and blocks. Each morning, I tried to make up my two lost years of physical training.

Afterwards I caught up my academic training-- Geography, at last! I also had to learn about Al-Umecca's history, especially the wars. Math, writing, sciences of the earth, drawing maps, my afternoons were filled. During the night, I learned things that would've helped me when I was lost, and that my father had used to find me.

All day every day, my father worked me. I grew muscles I didn’t know I had.

After eight months of this rigorous routine, my father told me we were going to have a change.

He said that I had already caught up two of the years I missed out on, and that now I could slow down if I wanted to- he would let me decide. I thanked him, and left the tent to think.

Although the past months hadn’t been the type of enjoyment I was used to, I was still enjoying myself. As I reflected on my father’s question, I realized that I really did like being around my father. I thought I'd forgiven him. But I decided to wait a little longer, just to be sure my feelings were clear.

Going back into the tent, I told him that I'd decided that I had fun training all the time, and would like to continue; besides, I said, I would always enjoy more geography.

A year had passed since my time sitting in the Zuberi's tent. I still hadn't learned about my "doom", and I was progressing more slowly as the lessons got harder, but I was still getting closer to Jamal. I'd even begun to tell him things that I'd previously only told my mother. But I never told him I'd forgiven him. The words would choke in my throat whenever I tried.

It was so hard to forget the years of exile at home. To try and forget the boys who wouldn’t befriend me, or who even bullied me, was almost impossible.

Many of the Zuberi students were always training, as I was, and I never got a chance to talk with them. But there was a boy and his father trained on a hill next to ours. One day, when we were passing each other on our way to lunch, he actually talked to me. “Hello. I’m Din-al”

“Hi” I said back, surprised. This was the first kind word I’d had from a boy in years.

“I was watching you practice,” he was trying to have a conversation! “You’re pretty good at blocking”

“Thanks”

“See you tomorrow”

“Okay.”

From then on, we exchanged a few words on our way to lunch, and formed a friendship.

***** ******

On my fifteenth birthday, my mother came up to me as I entered the tent from my morning training.

She looked nervous. "I need to talk to you, Hashim." I came over and sat down next to her. "Yes, mother?"

"Have you noticed that your father is a little sober lately?"

I had seen that, and had wondered why he wasn't his usual cheerful self. I told her that.

"It's because of your birthday. As you know, when you are 17 you are to join a profession. In your case, you will join the Zuberi."

"Right."

She looked so sad. I put my head on her shoulder, just as I had when I was young, and she was comforting me.

Sighing, she continued, "The Zuberi were organized a long time ago."

"That's right,” I filled in.” They were made in the time of raider Qismat's grandfather, and only the best men were selected. My great-grandfather helped with the organization." I'd learned about this long ago.

She shifted, moving to face me. I looked at her expectantly. She put her hands on my shoulders.

"Hashim, what the Zuberi do is very dangerous. They are frequently attacked on their patrols by men of raider Qismat. There are fatalities at least every two years. With each death, the job grows more dangerous, because there are less doing it. Your grandfather died when he was only thirty-seven. Your father was a young boy then, and when he grew, he had to train with his older brother. His older brother died when your father was twenty, the year we married. Your father was traumatized by this. He was afraid for you, when you were born. He didn't want you to have to deal with an early death, or with his death. He thought that he could still help you from a distance."

Shocked at the torrent of information and the crushing reality of death, I stared at the rug, my mouth open-- barely comprehending.

Taking her hands off my shoulders, my mother stood up and left me. She walked out, and let me alone to grapple with this news.

I didn't know how long I sat there.

My father came to me. He sat down beside me, where my mother had been sitting when I'd laid my head on her.

"Your mother told you about your uncle? And your grandfather?"

I nodded. Silence reigned between us.

I usurped it, saying, "Father, I never told you, but..." I looked into his eyes, "I forgive you. I understand now."

Tears appeared rapidly on both of our cheeks. We both understood without any more words.

****** ******

The next two years past by all too quickly. I learned everything my father could teach me about geography, and used that knowledge along with the stealth he taught me to see if I could slip away from him during practices. There was one time when I felt a funny feeling, and saw my father's eyes glance over me, and I knew he couldn't see me. Only for a second, though, and then he saw me. When I tried it on other Zuberis, however, I was usually able to pass by them unseen. 

The hardest thing for me to learn was fighting. How could I try to hurt my own father? Because of this, he tried to arrange for me to practice against other students or men. With this arrangement, things went much faster, for I already knew the skills, but now I could put them into force.

I practiced moves to make against swordsmen, how to fight behind a horseman --as the raiders used horses, even if the Zuberi rarely did--, how to escape holds, and how to make my daggers pierce armor.

Eventually, I started to beat the other boys regularly. I didn't get much chance to try against other men, but when I did, I found that I could even beat some of them.

My mother could nearly always be seen during the morning practice, when she had no work to do. During the afternoon, she would prepare a delicious meal for us to eat after our day's work. Every night, I slept hard and long, never with dreams to disturb me. Regularly now, other Zuberi members and students agreed to fight me for practices, one of these was Din-al. For some reason I had no trouble fighting him, although we would grin at each other as we practiced.

During those happy days, I had only one worry, and I am sure that it was the only worry of anyone in my small family. "Will Jamal come home each morning, after his night patrol?" This is the fear that accompanies any family with a member in the work of war. For it was a war that the Zuberis fought; a war against the outer nomads, who continually were trying to break their way in.

How my father managed to rest, remained a mystery. He was up all night guarding, and spent most of the day with me. He was an amazing father and husband. I could hardly remember the time when he wasn't there to help me, teach me, and talk with me; or when he didn't help my mother tidy the tent, or put his arms around her shoulders as they laughed together. Ours was a closely knitted circle, with each string so entwined that it made a wonderful bracelet-- strong, yet beautiful.

****** ******

The years passed quickly. I was now seventeen, and a man. The time came, and I was officially brought into the Zuberis. It was a quick and quiet ceremony led by Ali, and attended only by my family, Din-al and his father, and a few other Zuberis that I had trained with.

My first sanctioned patrol was to be at night, the same time as my father's. It was to the west of the camp, the same side as our tent. 

In the tent, I was preparing my things. After tonight, I would have my own tent. Close by, but my own.  

My mother and father watched me with anxious eyes. My poor mother; now she had two to fear for.

I was ready. So was my father. After kissing my mother good-bye, we left-- each headed for our own patrol. I headed straight into the setting sun, sweeping the ground with my eyes, but staying low to the ground, as I'd been taught. I didn't see the man I was replacing, but my father said that he would see me, and would leave as I arrived, but that I must stay on my hill until someone was with me.

Most of the night I spent on a hill in the center of my patrol, going out often to scout the area. I never saw anything to attract attention. I kept my eyes wide open; not only to see everything, but also to stay awake. I hadn't slept since yesterday morning. Fighting the sleep, I tried to remember my father's suggestions to stay awake. I stopped focusing on my surroundings for one second to remember it.

The stars grew large, and then went dark.

****** ******

I awoke with a headache in my head, and my hands tied behind my back. I wasn't blindfolded or gagged, but I didn't make a sound, or give a sign that I was awake. Even through my pain, I  remembered what to do to survive abduction. Quietly, I listened for sounds, and looked for light. The moon was setting in the distance; I should've been arriving home in a few hours. My mother and father would be miserable, losing me the first day on the job. In my head I called myself all kinds of stupid. Looking back, I could remember clearly all of my father's suggestions to stay awake, and all the times he told me to only focus on the job. But, here I was-- I'd just have to get out.
There was a movement. Behind me. I could roll over and see who or what it was, but it was safer to just use my ears, and find out what I could. Two movements. Two people? I heard whispers. Yes, it was people. Men, probably (although the voices weren’t very deep). What were they saying?
"Leave?... Why not.... no..... I think that....."
"Sh! .... awake ...."
Did they know I was awake? Or was he warning against the possibility of it happening? So many questions! When would I get an answer? When I was dead? That wasn't a cheerful thought.
Someone was approaching; I heard the footsteps, but heavy ones. These people were not well trained. Who was touching me? I was being lifted. So they weren't going to leave me dead. But where were they taking me? To be tortured? Sold as a slave? Killed elsewhere?
Trying to stay limp, I also tried to stop my thoughts from running wild. I was bumped against the ground. Were they crawling? Not quite, but almost.
I could no longer see the sun, so they were heading towards the village. What was going on? This wasn't a prank, was it? I'd never heard of new Zuberis being picked on. My father had never mentioned it. That wasn't an option. The Zuberi had too important a job to fool around with the patrols.
My captors were shaking. It wasn't laughter, was it? I was being set down-- my ropes were cut.
"Alright, Hashim, you've faked us out."
"Yeah, we totally thought that you were still knocked out."
I got up, and looked at them. Sure enough, they were two that I knew-- Zuberi that I had practiced with, but who weren't yet official. One of them was strong and tall, and must have been the one carrying me, and they were both known to be mischievous. The young blockheads!
"What have you done?!" I almost yelled, heading back to my hill.
"Hey," the tall one, Gabor, called, "it's alright, Hashim! We scouted about a bit-- no one's there! It's not like raider Qismat is going to come!  Hashim? Where'd he go?"
"He can disappear better than anyone I know." Maific, the other replied. "Only a few can spot him."
I didn't hear their words. I was rushing back to my patrol. Maific and Gabor may have unknowingly helped the raiders through by taking me away when no one was there to replace me. I moved more slowly, and looked around, scouting for signs of people moving.
Nothing. But I had learned, and remained aware, and attentive. There! A movement! I froze, and watched it, hardly breathing. Someone was there; and he didn't want to be seen.
Cautiously, I moved closer, ever so slowly. I was nearly to them, yet they didn't see me. I had  the feeling I had felt the one time my father had looked at me, but hadn't seen me. I sneaked up behind the man. A stranger, he was not dressed like one of us. His face was rough, and his hands were scarred. Moving again, he moved away from me. I moved with him; carefully matching his footsteps as my father had taught me, so he only heard his own.
He was moving away from the camp, apparently he'd found what he wanted. I hesitated. Should I get someone else to do this? I should be letting my parents know that I was fine.
No. I had to go. But I would need all of my training plus some.
Father! I pleaded. I prayed he would follow me, find me somehow. With this prayer in my heart, I followed the man with the scarred hands. He traveled swiftly, probably trying to get back before the next Zuberi came to take my place. As I walked, I touched my belt to make sure my daggers were there. I wasn't the best with daggers, but I wasn't the worst either.
We were passing the Kosho Pel, the Crowned Hill. We were near the boundaries of Al-Umecca. This may be a planned raid. I saw a multitude of people, and stooped down further, moving very slowly, but still surely. There was a horse in the front, the man with the scarred hands went straight to the man on the horse, and spoke with him-- undoubtedly about my absence, and the hole in the usually strong wall of Zuberi.
The man turned, and even in the dim light, I recognized his face. It was a face described around fires, a face used to terrify children into bed, it was the face of raider Qismat.
After the man with the scarred hands stopped talking, Qismat smiled-- a sinister smile of malice. He beckoned the man away, and turned his horse to face the army. For now I saw that it was an army. This was no chance raid. This was a planned attack!; intended to wipe out Al-Umecca. This is what Qismat told his followers as he spoke to them; and he stirred them into such a frenzy that they might've shouted if they hadn't been so close to the border.
I crept closer. I had to stop this. Stopping on the other side of a clump of bushes I was 8 feet away from the terror of the desert, yet he didn't see me, and I was not afraid. Next to him was another rider, dressed officially, I assumed it was his general, the one they said was waiting for Qismat to die so that he (the general), could take power. Of course, Qismat was so powerful that the thought of killing Qismat himself had probably never entered the general's mind.
Qismat was still speaking to his army. I got closer. The best way to stop him was to kill him. I would have to use my daggers, and my hand-to-hand training. Hashim, myself-- a new warrior, against the most powerful fighter on this side of the stars. But I had the element of surprise, and that just might do it.
Closer. Closer. I was right behind his horse, he was still talking. I leaped up, my dagger in my hand, jumping over the hindquarters of his horse, and the saddle.
I stabbed my knife through the armor and into the horror of years.
Yet he did not die.
How could such a man die, from only a dagger?
I saw astonishment on the faces of the army, but no fear. Believing their leader could live forever, they did not worry; only looked forward to the first kill--me.
Turning, Qismat swept his arm to hit me off the saddle. I ducked, and tried to get my dagger out of him. It was stuck.
I took out my other dagger, and held it ready. I felt powerful. His hand came back from his swipe. I didn't duck.
I cut it off.
Now there was surprise, and doubt in the eyes of everyone I saw as they watched the hand fall to the earth. I did not see Qismat's face, but felt his backbone stiffen. He seemed frozen, but I knew that I was now in more danger. I'd proved myself a threat.
I used my eyes to take in the people around me. The general was moving in, but slowly, he had tried not to get my attention. The army was frozen in place. The man with the scarred hand was gone. Gone? That was wrong. Swiftly, I thrust myself off of the horse, and landed on the ground.
Just in time. As Qismat started to draw his sword, another sword was thrust into the air where I had been.
The air wouldn't hold it.
The sword went into Qismat. The sword did what the dagger couldn't.
Dead, Qismat fell off his horse.

****** ******

I sat on the ground for only a second-- then I was off.
Trying to be a ghost in the bushes and hills, I traveled swiftly. I heard footsteps. Fast ones. Fear filled me. I was being chased. A vision passed in my head-- my mother weeping over my body.
Frightfully, I chanced a glance back, and saw the general. I couldn't fight him and win; there was no surprise, no advantage to me. Unless I could get back home. I wanted to be home, and I never wanted to leave it again. I wanted my father. Passing the Crowned Hill, I felt safer. Hurriedly  I tried to come up with a plan, but also keep my mind on the present crisis. I was nearing my patrol hill. Surely my replacement would be there by now. I would run there, then allow myself to come into plain view, and trust that the patrolling Zuberi would be there.
The general was getting closer. I looked back again. No!! Was everything against me? Was my father to suffer more? The man with the scarred hands was following also! Focus Hashim. Keep on moving forward. I could see the hill. Not seeing the patrolling Zuberi, I hesitated for a moment, before it struck me that he could be hiding. I'd have to risk it.
Abandoning all cover, I dashed to the hill. Standing on the very top of the bald dune, I could be seen for a great distance. With luck, the patrolling Zuberi wouldn't be out scouting too far away. Luck didn't seem to be with me. No one but the general appeared; and he was closely followed by the man with the scarred hands. Figuring I could hold off at least one of them, I prepared for a fight. I'd left my dagger in the sand by Qismat. I had only my hands, but those are what I've been trained to use.
I used the time I had to collect my thoughts. I was still afraid, for myself and my family; I was afraid of death, of being wounded beyond repair, of bleeding out my heart alone; but even with all these fears I still felt calm. I knew what I had to do, I just didn't know if I could do it. Closing my eyes for just a second, I remembered the time my father had found me in the desert. With all of the desert surrounding the village, he'd been able to find me, and bring me home.
Assured and confident, I opened my eyes. I could do this. I could use my skills; I smiled a little-- my practice wasn't waiting to be tested.
I stared at the general first (he was, after all, the closest). He was heavy, and thick, but he moved steadily, and with agility. He had his sword out, and I could see a curved knife at his side. I would be able to grab the knife easily enough-- Father said I was a natural pickpocket-- but the sword would be hard to remove, since it was in his big, strong hands. The general was at the bottom of my hill. I got into my fighting stance.
Halfway up the hill, the general was grinning cruelly.
He was almost to me. I was ready for him. Suddenly, there was a blur in between us. It was the patrolling Zuberi!
He attacked the general ferociously. The general was surprised, but it was still a tough fight.
The patrolling Zuberi quickly swiped the knife, but instead of using it, managed to toss it up the hill to me-- even with his back turned! I watched them fight, enthralled.
The general tried to get the Zuberi with his sword, but the Zuberi ducked and leaped; always just out of reach of the sword, but close enough to put in a few kicks of his own. The general was striking faster, and faster, getting more and more wrathful which each failed strike. It seemed as if the Zuberi was dodging him easily, almost mocking him. Seeing this, the general was even more angry. He fought hard, but he was no match to the skills of the Zuberi.
I didn't see how he did it, and I will always wonder how he did it, but he killed the general: the general with a sword and with armor, Qismat's right hand, the one who would take over the raids, this mighty, evil general was killed; and he was killed by a Zuberi's bare hands.
The Zuberi left the body, instantly on the look-out for the man with the scarred hands. Starting to look also, I scoured the sand and brush around the hill. Nothing.
I stared harder, in the same direction as the Zuberi. The Zuberi was moving farther away, searching every shrub for the missing man.
The air was growing warm. I turned, and looked at the sun. It was barely over the horizon of the tents. Surely, the desert was the most beautiful place for a sunrise. I was lost in the beauty for a second. I couldn't help myself, I had to leave the intensity for just a moment.
Then that moment ended.
A strong hand reached up, and wrapped around my mouth-- cutting off my scream. The hands were scarred. The man must've hidden on the other side of the hill, the one I was now facing, and moved around me when the Zuberi had left. Breathing hard through my nose, I thought fast. Where could he be taking me? Most likely he would take me back to the army, and they’d either kill me or make me a slave. His other arm had grabbed around my side, pinning my arms at the wrists, making them useless. My legs were the only things free: how could I use them? I'd been taught to use hands, not feet!
Then I had it. It was so simple, that it might work. The man with the scarred hands started to walk down the hill, to the south-- away from the patrolling Zuberi, the army, and from Al-Umecca. He pushed me in front of him, just as I'd hoped he would. I was walked down the hill. We were nearly at the bottom. This was a sandy spot, with bushes at the bottom. Suddenly, I stopped walking, and dropped, using my superior height and weight to make the man come down with me. It worked! We both went rolling down the hill, but his hands left my body to soften his fall. I was hoping for this, and as soon as I reached the bottom, I jumped up, and ran. I had to get as much of a head start as possible, and his surprise wouldn't last long.
Running again, I breathed hard. Unfortunately, the sun had started to rise. My feet were burning from the sand, my face was burning from the sun, and my heart was burning from the fear.
I looked behind me. The man was chasing me, with his scarred hands reaching for me. Looking ahead, I ran faster. I ran faster then I'd ever run before. I kept on running for home.
The footsteps were speeding up. He was about to grab me, when I tried the trick again. As soon as I felt his hands on me, I stopped running and fell, curling up as I did.
Success again! He fell over me. I jumped up, and ran off, turning in the direction my father's patrol. It wasn't much of a delay, but it was better than nothing.
At the most it had been half an hour since I had jumped on Qismat's horse. And in that half hour, I'd seen more danger than I'd ever seen, or hoped to see, in my life. But I was still in it now.
I raced death, but its scarred hands were close, and gaining.

I prayed, prayed that my father would be waiting for me, praying that he would be at his patrol. I do not know who I prayed to; I only hoped I would be heard.

My father’s hill could be seen in the distance. I couldn’t see him! I couldn’t see anyone! Setting my jaw, I continued, determined to at least make it to the hill before the man with the scarred hands reached me.

Fiercely, I gave my all as I sped up to the hill. My best chance of being seen would be from the top; but running up would take time and energy. Down in the shadow, however, the sand was cool, and I’d have a level ground for fighting. I knew now that I’d have to do battle, I just couldn’t run anymore. Terrified, yet calm, I reached the bottom of the hill, stopped, and turned to accept my fate. To live was not realistic; I just wanted to go down fighting, not fleeing.

The man was only a second behind me, but when I stopped, he did too. We faced each other, my face streaked with sweat, while his held a smile.

Ready to fight, I watched his body for some sign of movement. My father had told me that there were millions of little signs that showed when someone would attack. I saw some, and jumped back. The man leaped and stabbed where I had been with a knife. The battle had begun.

Remembering past practices, I told myself that this man was simply a trainer, that he was just testing my skill. I knew it was false, but it was better than reality. Blocking, dodging, I never tried to fight back, I merely held my ground.

Around the hill we went, with me always moving backwards. The sun still rose, unaware of the figures below, locked in morbid combat. Many of the man’s hits and cuts landed, but I made them less harmful.

The attack came faster, and faster. Frustrated at being held off so long, the man fought me with more vigor. By now, I had already been given many bruises from his fist; my body was bleeding from his dagger. My strength was leaving me; but what could I expect, after an hour of intensely running and struggling for life? I was hardly even blocking now, I was going numb. Feeling faint, I wondered vaguely what would happen to me. Why didn’t he just kill me now, and get it over with?

I was kneeling on the ground, curling up into a ball. The pain couldn’t reach me in sleep, and that’s where I was headed.

Another figure joined the man as I slipped away from the world

****** ******

Moving…

Water…

Tired…

Hurt…

Pain…

Touches from fingers.

Less pain now.

Oh! There again! New pain! More touches.

I was back. Back where? To life? To heaven? Had I died?

Who was that? Shadow above me. What is it?

No more light. More sleep.

***** ******

My eyes opened.

I was in a tent. Was I a prisoner? Was I home?  Where was I?

Starting to rise, I lay back immediately, gasping. My body was still bruised and cut from my fight. Fight? Oh yes, that fight.

Carefully, I looked at my surrounding by moving my head from side to side. It was hard to see in the darkness, but I could make out another pile of blankets. Silence was all I heard.

I relaxed. If I was a prisoner, I was a comfortable prisoner. I’d sleep now, and discover where I was when the sun would give some of its light.

****** ******

Noise…

Light in eyes…

Figures. Silhouettes.

I’m still lying down. Still in the tent.

There were many people around me. My eyes were opening once more.

Mother. Father. They were both by me! I was home. I was safe.

I reached for my parents, and we all folded into a hug. Then I was quickly laid back down, and given some food. We talked together without stopping for quite some time-- just about memories and each other-- and I enjoyed everything about it. What we said wasn’t important, but the feeling relief and joy at being with my family once again was a feeling that I would remember all my days.

That night, I was able to move around slowly. Many of my bruises and cuts had healed during my two days of unconsciousness. But one of my legs, my arms, and my chest were very sore—making it hard to move. Leaning on my father, with my mother walking beside him, I went to the tent of the Zuberi; just as I had that day many years ago when I’d sat there wondering why I was there, and what would happen.

Knowing what I was here for this time, I was prepared. I was here to give a report to Ali and the chief about my doings, and the movements of the raiders. This was the first time my story had been told (my parents and I had avoided it as we were talking). They had picked up most of it from the man with the scarred hands, who was a captive there. I found out that it was my father whom I had seen coming up behind the man. He’d caught the man by surprise, and quickly beat him. Then, he’d taken me up and carried me home. This was a risk, leaving the man with the scarred hands alone, and unbound. But my father took that risk in order to get me to safety. When I learned this I knew he loved me.

After they told me what the man had told them, I told them of my adventures; that boys had taken me for a joke, and that I’d followed the man with the scarred hands to Qismat, that I’d attacked him, and how he’d died. They said nothing, but I saw my mother’s face was frightened and concerned for me, even when the danger was past. My father’s face also showed worry, but that was over-shone by the pride in his eyes. Writing down my every word, Ali showed no emotion. After my tale, the chief clapped me on the shoulder (remembering too late my bruised body) and told my father that I was a one-of –a-kind boy. I saw him nod his head. “Indeed,” he said, “My son is a very wonderful boy.”

As we left the tent, I recalled the time when I had run out of the tent with a heart filled with the fire of anger.

Now the fire was gone, and it was replaced by a warm glow of love. I had a father. He had a son. We completed each other perfectly. 

Now that you've read it, please go through again and tell me things you don't like, and typos I made.

Thanks!

(after you edit this, I'm sending it to Sis. Hall and my dad for a final editing, then I might publish it :))