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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

Mona Baraka was unsurprised at the change in subject.  “What are you ashamed of?”

It took the man a long time to respond.  “I participated in many battles… things they now call conflicts.  The Romani ambush… The Battle of Suez… The Four-Day War.  Many more.”

“You served your country well.”

Hamed did not respond.

“You need not be ashamed,” she offered.

“We are all ashamed,” he mumbled.

“If you were—”

The man held up a finger and suddenly coughed violently, prompting the imam to rise and hold a small towel to Hamed’s mouth until he gently pushed it away.

“Listen,” he said.  “Before it is too late.”

“Of course.”

“Soldiers are not given explanations.  We follow orders.  That is all.”  His dark eyes had returned to the ceiling.  “But some orders,” he said, now almost whispering.  “Some orders felt wrong.”

“Wrong in what way?”

“I am no longer fearful,” he said, changing topics.  “My family is now gone.  In Jannah.”  He turned back to the imam.  “But for me… it will be Sijjin.”

The Islamic equivalent of hell.

Mona followed his gaze to the younger man at his side, staring back at Hamed.  “What did you do?” she quietly asked.

“I sought.”

She frowned.

“I sought,” he repeated.

“Sought what?”

“To know the truth of what I had done.”  His words stopped until his eyes returned to Mona.  “Firing on an enemy you know is easy, at least during combat.  But other times…”

“You did what you were told,” said the imam.

“It will not be enough,” the old man croaked.  “Not in the eyes of Allah.”

“It will be enough,” the imam assured him.

Hamed feebly shook his head.  “Not this.”  He turned back to Mona and said, “Sometimes knowledge is worse.”

“What do you mean?”

He replied almost painfully.  “In 1977, I shot down a private jet.”

After a long moment, Mona asked, “Who was in it?”

Hamed's eyes became glassy as though he were staring through her.  “Allah.”

5

5

She stared at him with a confused expression.  “You shot down Allah?”

The old man nodded.

“What does that mean?”

“It means Sijjin.”

The man was beginning to talk in circles.

“Who was on the plane?”

“I did not know,” he mumbled, staring through her.  “I could not have known.”

When she looked at the imam, he shrugged and returned a blank expression.

“It took years,” breathed Hamed.

“For what?”

“To find out.”

“To find out what?”

Again, he inhaled deeply, desperate for oxygen.  “Whose plane it was.”

Now Mona leaned forward.  “Who?”

“Shaitan.”

She looked to the imam for clarification but received none.

Demons?

“I don’t understand.”

Hamed coughed again, this time with more spittle, caught once again by the imam’s cloth.  “You will.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth that the old man’s eyes widened, and his chest heaved without warning.

Once, then twice, before collapsing back into his frail body.  In an instant, his eyes, dark and sullen, became lifeless.

***