His father thought it was much shit as he thought much of what his eldest son suggested was much shit. Abdullah thought his father was much shit. He thought he was old and tired and dangerous because the world was forever young, forever birthing. Someone needed to oversee the new. That would be him.
Only one could lead. As had the Prophet.
“Give me your name again.” He crossed his small ankles; Abdullah was barely five-three.
“Azhar Mustafa.”
“A fine man,” the Imam said.
“As you mentioned.” Abdullah gestured for Azhar to stand; Mustaka thanked Allah silently for steadying his creaky knees. “That was a strong story of courage with that Crusader girl, Azhar.”
He forced out the words. “I did what needed to be done.”
“Which unfortunately, many don’t. They can only do what they’re told. Can you do what you’re told, Azhar?”
He nodded.
“What if you’re not told why you’re doing something?”
“I assume my lord knows better.”
Abdullah frowned. “You know I am superior.”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
Azhar peeked over to the Imam for guidance, who waved his hand in vague encouragement.
“You are a great man.”
“Am I?” Abdullah smiled. “Well, yes. But why?”
Mustafa grimaced. “Your charities resonate throughout the Caliphate.”
“That is governed by the teachings of the Quran. Have I anything to do with that?”
“The Word must be put into practice, my lord.”
Abdullah shifted in his wide chair, intrigued. “And you think some don’t?”
He looked again for guidance from the Imam, who shook his head.
“I think some don’t. Following Allah is difficult.”
“Some fail?”
“Yes.”
“Like who?”
Azhar looked directly at Abdullah, alarming the Imam. “Only Allah knows.”
“Yes, he does,” Abdullah was amused. “Clearly so do you.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“You’re allowed to mean, Azhar. You’re allowed to have thoughts. Because understanding Allah is, as you say, difficult. Many believe they talk directly. Do they talk to Allah or do they hear themselves thinking they are talking to Allah to justify what they believe and how they behave?”
Azhar’s mind scrambled to follow.
“Who is to know that?” Abdullah shrugged. “God must speak to many. Do you think he speaks to Crusaders?”
Mustafa vigorously shook his head.
“But what if a Crusader wants to know Allah?”
“They must study and accept Him in their heart.”
“What if they share the ideas of Allah but in their own way?”
“I don’t think that is possible.”
“But we share our holy books with the Crusaders and the Jews. Moses. Jesus. People of the Book. Why can we not share our minds and remain true? If our beliefs are so strong, our Prophet so strong, what should we fear by the thoughts of others?”
Azhar wanted to dig an escape hatch. “I don’t know the answer.”
The Son squeezed both of Mustafa’s wrists. “No one does. Except me.”
“Blessed be,” the Imam murmured, eyes glistening.
“With help.” Abdullah smiled. “I’m told you’re a good sailor.”
He nodded. “The best, my lord.”
The Mufti’s son laughed. “We will get along well, Captain.”
24
Hazel waited at the corner of Decater and Bedford Park, the glittering colors of the HG Bronx Botanical Gardens an Earth-bound rainbow a couple blocks away. Hazel smiled at the families strolling past in the mild May evening, jolting a few memories of being ten, an older orphan struggling to lose his French accent, and his parents Greta and Gail, long dead, taking him for hours and hours through the Gardens. He never realized the flowers weren’t real.
Hazel felt a slight pinch in his neck. When he woke, the black hood was still around his head, hands tied in the familiar Navy Seal clove hitch knot. His legs were free, allowing him to stretch the Gelinium.
Derek Singh pulled off the hood and Hazel blinked rapidly, a little angry.
“Was that necessary?”
Singh grunted. Easy Sun Yen reclined in a thick easy chair as if waiting for a vidmovie to come on. Three old, muscular men stood with arms folded, yawning; they were beyond menacing stares.
“I come to your planet in peace,” John quipped. Singh nodded and someone yanked off the knot. Hazel rubbed his wrists. “Any poisoned drinks or you’re saving that for the ride home?”
Derek used his heavy boot to slide a tottering chair by Hazel. They were in the back room of a store, probably Singh’s. John waited with a faint smile.
“What do you want?” Singh finally asked, straddling the chair.
“Same thing as you. To finally finish the job.”
Singh shot a quick glance around the room. “It’s a little late for that. War’s over. We have peace and prosperity.”
“Not unless you live under Allah rule, which is pretty much the whole world except for North America and the neutral zones in the Caribbean.”
“And China.”
“Xinjiang and Gansu are long gone to the Allahs. They’re still fighting in Yunnan and Henan.”
Yen shrugged from deep within his chair. “Their problems, not ours.”
“We’re just retired siblings,” Singh said.
“Dabbling in commerce,” Yen added. “Me with my haberdashery. Derek the country grocer.”
Hazel turned, waiting for the others to chime in, but they just stared. “Sicily?”
The one on the left with the crooked scar on his forehead nodded.
“Me, too. 238th.”
They didn’t do more than peer. Hazel sighed inwardly. “You heard Grandma’s Story.”
“Yup,” Singh replied simply.
“The Story’s the first step to redoing the curriculum. She backdoored this apology instead of letting it get debated in the Cousins Council. Children will learn lies.”
“Like they haven’t all this time?” Yen snapped; Singh shot him a warning look.
“Why do you think she’s doing this?” Hazel looked around.
“Clearly you got the answers.”
“I think she’s paving the way for a rapprochement.”
“That an English word?” The ex-Marine with the crooked scar drawled.
“No. French. Like me. They rescued my ass.” Les enfants de transport aerien, back in 2063. Tens of thousands, shivering on the beaches at Dunkirk, waiting for the planes. The Allahs had finally developed a sense of history not about themselves.
Singh leaned forward on the back of the chair, staring at Hazel. “We all know the history. We were there.”
“So was I,” Hazel tapped his Gelinium.
“238th. Sicily.”
“That’s right. May 2069.”
“Bloody awful.”
“Damn straight.”
“Your rank?”
“I’m
