Page 165 of Whisper
“I have to go. I have to get back. I have people—” His voice choked off as tears built in his eyes. “I have to go back,” he whispered.
“How? There is one road out of these mountains. A goat path. It takes four days to walk it. It takes another four days to get to the nearest village. Al-Qaeda is there. That is where Al-Qaeda found my son. He too wanted to leave these mountains. But he only found death.”
“Am I your prisoner now?”
“Brother, you are not a prisoner, except of your own body. You haven’t stood for months. How do you expect to walk down the mountain?Bismillah, Allah can do a great many things, butthatwould be a miracle.”
“Please… help me. I have to get back. I have to go home.”
“I cannot make it down the mountain. I would not survive the trip.In shaa Allah, the rest of my days will be spent here, in my home.”
“Who will come for me? Al-Qaeda? The Taliban?” Had his life been spared just to die again?
“No one will come for you,in shaa Allah. My son never told a soul where he was from. He kept these mountains, our home, his deepest secret. He brought you here to be a part of that secret.”
Tears slipped free of David’s eyes, sliding in sideways tracks down his temples. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“As long as you are here, brother, you have a home. You are safe under my roof, and you are welcome to my food. I will treat you like family. Like the son I’ve lost.Alhamdulillah.”
Was this the way of the world? Was this Allah’s path? A son without a father and a father without a son? Had Allah planned this? His tears seared his eyes, his skin, and he curled against himself as they poured forth.
He’d lived, he’d survived, but he was without Kris, the other half of his soul. But suddenly, back in the arms of a father. What twisted paths, what curving melodies, his life had taken. Was there anything other than the touch of the divine in his destiny?
He wassupposedtodie. He’d given his life for Kris’s, had pleaded with Allah for the trade. But instead of taking his life, Allah had seen fit to deliver him here, to this mountaintop in the most desolate region on earth, a place lost in time, in space. Abu Adnan had probably been born inside these four walls, had probably never traveled more than twenty-five miles in his entire life. His whole existence could fit on the face of this one mountain, raising his family, glorifying Allah.
Was there a purer form of submission to Allah than this? Living outside of time and living with the prayers of Allah in the center of his soul? If his father were still alive, would he not live like Abu Adnan?Is this the faith you adored, Baba? Is this the God you loved with all your heart?
What did it mean? What did all of this mean? To lose his father, to find Kris. To lose Kris, but to find a father. Years and years of carnage and despair, evil and death. Did Allah allow this evil, this anguish, to take place? Had he created life, created everything in their pairs, split David and Kris’s souls, and then walked away? Was evil of His creation, or of humanity’s, the end result of their wickedness run amok? Wasn’t faith supposed to bring everyone closer to Allah? How had the world, and His people, fallen so far?
Was this a test? The faithful, the righteous, were always tested. But how cruel a test! To destroy cultures, families, lives. The deaths of millions. To invade with evil into the corners of every life, rip out their hearts, take away fathers and sons. What kind of God would do such a thing?
Or, was this a second chance? Or perhaps, he’d lost count of how many second chances he’d been given by Allah.Allah is ever merciful, the Quran said.Whisper my name, and I will always be there. My mercy to you is eternal, everlasting.
Indeed, we belong to Allah, and to Allah we will return.
His tears turned to sobs, giant, hiccupping gasps that raked through his still-healing ribs, made his lungs ache, his throat go raw as he screamed. Abu Adnan reached for him, pulled him close. Held him, like he was a child. He felt like a child. He felt small and alone and afraid.
Abu Adnan spoke in his ear, softly, “Every heart that aches, Allah soothes. Every tear that falls, Allah catches. Every sin that is regretted, Allah forgives.Alhamdulillah, ibni. Alhamdulillah. Allahu Akbar.”
His whole life, hisentirelife, he’d wanted his fatherback. He’d wanted to cling to him and hear the rumble of his voice, feel his chest beneath his cheek. Ask him questions and listen to his father explain the world to him again. He wanted his father, and his childhood, and their home in Benghazi back. He wanted prayers and the mosque back. He wanted the fire in his heart, the lightning in his soul, the electric connection to Allah, back. He’dneverbeen able to fill that void, that yearning for his past. He was an Arab, a Muslim, and he missedeverythingabout his past.
“Allahu Akbar,” David whispered. His hands clung to Abu Adnan, to his arms, his back. He was so weak. How many months had he lain there, wasting away, save for the broth and bread Abu Adnan had been able to feed him. He felt like a shadow of his former self.
Truly, he couldn’t make it down the mountain, either.
Not like this.
He felt a decision settle around him, made of choices both within and without his control.
Kris, my love. My soul. We were united before time, made for each other. We will never part, not in this life or the next. Wherever I am, I will always be yours. I swear it.
He couldn’t go back. Not now. Physically, he couldn’t make the journey. But beyond the physical, there was something else, something deeper. A yank in his soul, a pull to remain. To return to his faith, a life he could have lived. The allure of a father’s love, days spent in prayer, drenched in the faith and love of Allah. He could have had this life. If only for one afternoon, this would have been his life.
Perhaps this was history shaking off the dust. Did all things happen in their own time? Were all things ordained, and brought to pass?Nothing will happen to us except what Allah has decreed for us, the Quran said.Endure patiently, with beautiful patience.
But what of Kris? How long had he been lying here, wasting away on the mountain? Had he been written off? If the CIA thought he was alive, wouldn’t the military overturn the entire country, every province, looking for him? Why was he being allowed to rest in peace, cared for tenderly by this lonely father?
Was Kris even alive? He’d offered to trade his life for Kris’s. What did it mean that he was still breathing? If he came out of these mountains and found Kris’s grave, he would shatter. He would shatter and fall to dust, and there would be nothing left of him. He couldn’t take losing both his father and Kris.
