Fan Fiction ❯ Rebus Knight ❯ Call of Destiny ( Chapter 10 )

Rebus Knight..........................by ConfirmTheOriginOfFire

Note: I am not anti-Semantic, anti-Israel, etc. Caution for strong material later in the story. If you don't understand certain aspects of the story, email me at Broccoliforest@aol.com and I'll explain it. Thanks to Indigo Ziona, who's been reading and reviewing this story pretty much from the very beginning. Thanks soo much!!! :D

Story, characters, etc. Ó 2002 by ConfirmTheOriginOfFire. All rights reserved.

-Chapter Ten-

CALL OF DESTINY

They didn't stick around to see the embodiment of their plan. But they were sure they'd hear all about it soon enough.

"So this is what it's like, Kash. Leaving home. Never thought I'd see this day. Ever."

Kashim fought the temptation to turn around and run back to the camp. "Yeah. After my father died, my mother made me promise never to leave her. She always knew Amira wouldn't be around forever . . . maybe she expected her to rise up and move away . . . but for whatever reason, mom wanted me to stay with her for the rest of her life."

"It's okay, though. Your mom will understand. She'll be proud. Your dad would be proud."

Kashim smiled as he trudged on. Then memory started to gnaw away at his insides. He looked down at his feet and shut up. This hurts, he thought. This sucks. But I've got to get it out sometime, and I might as well start with my best friend.

"Hey Moo, did I never tell you how my dad died?"

Mahmud looked at him with wide, shocked eyes. "Um, no. Kash, are you sure you want to tell me this? Are you ready?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm totally ready."

They took a quick look at the terrain ahead, then turned back to each other. Kashim took a breath. "He wasn't a bad father. You understand that, right?"

"Of course."

"Yeah. So my dad was a rioter. Just like me. He'd been doing it since he was a little, little kid. Throwing rocks and carrying letters for terrorists . . . things like that. Then he got more serious, like us. He needed weapons, guns, assistance. But there weren't any terrorist insructors like Tahir back then. No one to help him out. So he started doing some dirty deals with terrorists, who'd done their own dirty deals and slit a few throats to get the supplies in the first place.

"When he was sixteen, he married my mom, and they had Amira and me. I think he stopped associating with terrorists too much for our sake. He never really trusted them. But after the Americans were attacked last year, things got harder for us, and he started working with them again. To make more money for us, he started sellling weapons himself.

"I guess the terrorists thought he was competition. So one day, they marched right into his study and . . . and they killed him."

Mahmud's eyes were wide as dinner plates now. He put his arm around Kashim. "I'm sorry, Kash," he said. Tears were forming in both their eyes now and spilling over. Kashim held in wild sobs and felt a steam of sorrow in rolling, billowing clouds inside him. It coagulated and came out through his eyes. "I'm really sorry, Kashim."

"It's . . . it's not your fault!" he exclaimed tearfully. "It's . . . nobody's fault. Only the terrorists should feel guilty. And they're probably dead by now. What do I have now? Who do I have to blame?"

Mahmud didn't say anything for a long time, and Kashim abandoned the prospect. He shouldn't expect Mahmud to have anything to say about this, especially if he himself couldn't answer his own question. When the violent, loud wind calmed down somewhat, Mahmud said:

"Maybe you don't always have to blame someone. Maybe."

Then a cell phone rang. Kashim looked around, surprised. He was even more shocked when Mahmud took a phone from his pocket and answered it!

"You have a cell phone??"

"Yeah, Tahir gave it to me," he said quickly. "Hello?"

Kashim couldn't hear the person on the other line, but they must have been saying something important. Mahmud's eyes widened and he paled. "Are you sure?" he asked. "But . . ." He trailed off. "Uh-huh. Yeah. Yessir. I agree. 'Bye."

"Who was that?" Kashim asked when Mahmud put it away.

"Um, no one important."

That was all he could get out of him.

"I've called almost every office in the camp, no one's responding . . ."

"Out to lunch, maybe?"

"Nah."

"I told you this was a flaky idea."

"It's better than any idea of yours!"

"He's got a point, man. All of yours involved that American actor Vin Diesel and were impossible and stupid."

"So what if I like American movies?"

"That's not the point. The point is that this idea might not work, and if it doesn't, I don't know what we're going to do with the girl."

"Take her back?"

"No, we'd be killed on sight."

"Dump her in the middle of nowhere?"

"She'd report us. I'm pretty sure that even refugee-camp girls know what license plates are for."

"But you never know. Besides, if we can go flying over a big pit, she'd be too distracted to . . ."

"There you go again, Mr. America. Get serious. We're dealing with serious stuff here."

"We could kill her, I guess. People do that a lot."

"No. I don't want blood on my hands."

"I'll do it, then."

"Let's not do anything stupid, now. If the plan doesn't work, we'll think of something to do. I'm going to go take a nap now. Don't wake me up unless we're under attack or the house is on fire or the world is coming to an end or something."

"Whatever."

"Fine, I don't care."

"I'm gonna get some shuteye too."

All of them left her alone in the small underground room. Because of the darkness, she couldn't tell, but she guessed it was time for another sallat[1]. But she was still tied to a chair, unable to move and unable to properly pray. Instead, she pleaded with her God mentally.

I seek refuge in Allah, the most kind and most merciful, from Shaitan the outcast. This is your child Sadakah. Please, I am in a terrible predicament at this moment . . .

[1] sallat-The five-times-daily Muslim prayer.