Page 181 of Whisper
Dawood stared up at the moon again.You must follow the path Allah has laid out for you, ’Bu Adnan had said. But his life had led him down a path that was nothing but death, years and years of terrible death. Was that truly where he was meant to go, again?
Above, the blood moon stared down at him, eternally, perfectly silent.
Kandahar Province
Afghanistan
Cold wind swept from the ridgeline, down from the haunted mountain passes of Afghanistan. The wind came from Khost, and beyond, from Tora Bora. Passed through Kabul, picking up more souls, more lost dead. Dawood felt the wind lift his scarf, circle around his neck. He heard their whispers, the lamentations, across his skin.
He stood and raised his hands. “Allah hears those who praise Him.” Behind Dawood, the brothers rustled, rising and reciting their prayers under their voice. Over his shoulder, he saw Ihsan, eyes tightly closed, fast whispers falling from his lips. Ihsan’s faith was hard, desperate, a cry in the dark for what he craved.
“Allahu Akbar.” Slowly, Dawood dropped to his knees and prostrated. His forehead touched the ground, the dust of ghosts.
How many ghosts had sought Allah? How many had been just as desperate as Ihsan, reaching out with both hands for hope? How many had died for the wrong reasons, or for choices others had made for their lives? How many ghosts were like his father, who had just wanted to live, to love Allah?
How many were the ghosts of the wicked? He felt the chill on the back of his neck slice his skin, the cold turning razor sharp.
He’d tried, for three years, to convince Ihsan that Allah was not a brother to be hugged, a power to be grabbed on to and seized, or a missile that could be shot at the heart of his enemies. Allah was subtle and hidden, found in the whispers of the world, but only if one could listen. Finding Allah was like spotting a firefly in the corner of your eye. Like seeing the sun break the horizon, and that first beam of light stretch into the night sky and touch a star. Gone so fast, but for the moment, perfect.
You must follow the path Allah has laid out for you.
Paths were made of choices, choices thatmenmade. Allah had given him, and all men, the freedom to choose their own steps along the path He laid out. Each step drew a man closer or further from God, kept him on his path toward Allah or led him off it. Allah gave each man a key to their life, and it was up to each man to turn that key.
The choice to seek Allah, or the choice to stray from Him.
The choice to seek answers, or the choice to ignore.
The choice to build, or the choice to destroy a life, a soul.
Life was a mystery that stretched to infinity, and only at the end could a man look back and see the pattern of his life.
Dawood breathed in the dust of ghosts as he whispered his prayers. Even on his knees, even pressed to the dirt, Allah heard his whispers.
He was on Allah’s path.
Afghanistan-Pakistan Border
Three Years Before
He sent the families to Ihsan’s safe camp. They kissed his cheeks, cried, squeezed his hands. Thanked Allah for him, for the years he’d been with theirqala. He prayed with everyone, holding the men’s hands, brushing away tears from the faces of the children.
“When you miss me,” he told the children, “look to the moon. I am always looking at the moon, and we will be looking together. If you wave, I will wave back. The moon will be our messenger.”
They nodded and hung around his neck, refusing to let go of their hug.
Behroze wouldn’t leave.
He’d become Dawood’s shadow since the mountain, since his family was murdered. When Dawood turned around, there was Behroze. Every morning, Dawood woke with Behroze curled into his hold, lying in the dirt as close as he could get.
“Don’t make me go,” Behroze whispered.
“Behroze…”
“I want to stay with you.” He laced his hand through Dawood’s. “Let me fight. Please. I can, I can.Bismillah, I can.”
“Behroze…” Dawood pulled him close. Hugged him, as if he could merge their atoms. “Fighting isnotwhat I am going to do.”
“You’re going with those men. With the black flags.”
