Perhaps it was the assured voice which calmed Rachmann down, or the rifle that was casually slung over Fahid’s shoulder—the same rifle with which Fahid had single-handedly fought off the bandits only two months before and brought honour to the Banishra house. Rachmann grunted something mildly offensive under his breath and stepped aside.
At a gesture from his older sibling, Rafik began walking away from the group, but not before glancing meaningfully at Eithan and Cnaan. If their condition reflected his own, Rafik was a sight to behold. He felt the tickle of blood streaming gently from his hand, and his left cheekbone was already swollen and tender.
The siblings walked in silence for a while until they cleared the trees. Fahid stopped, put a hand on Rafik’s shoulder, and said, “Now, let’s take a look at you, little brother.”
He turned Rafik this way and that, and after a brief inspection he proclaimed, “Goodness, your shirt is torn and you’ve got a nice black eye here. And look at your hand, it’s bleeding all over the place. Mother will kill us both.”
There was definite concern in Fahid’s tone of voice. Rafik shuddered. Their father was a quiet and resolute man who rarely shouted and never hit his children. Their mother, on the other hand, was his fiery opposite, with a mighty forearm and a heavy-duty ladle, which she used to dish out her own painful version of the holy scripts.
Fahid smiled as they continued walking. “So who threw the first punch?”
When he grows up, Rafik wants to be just like his older brother: tall and strong and loyal, known to be a source of quiet strength and courage among the villagers even though he would only reach sixteen springs this year. Yet Fahid was a grown-up now, and one did not snitch to grown-ups, no matter who they were. Rafik shrugged and did not answer, not wishing to lie to his own brother nor betray his friends.
But although Fahid was about to be married soon, he had not forgotten the code of his own youth, and he laughed as he ruffled his younger brother’s short hair. “At least tell me you gave as much as you got.”
Rafik tried to smile but found the cut in his lower lip hurt too much.
“Eithan and I, we were winning.”
Fahid let out a short chuckle. “You are a brave pair, the both of you, fighting those odds.”
And that was the best compliment Rafik had ever gotten.
Pain all but forgotten, he walked on air after his older brother all the way home to be berated by their angry mother.
Rafik, would you please repeat what I just said?”
Rafik blinked and his eyes focused on the familiar classroom. Heads were already turned, and Rafik saw malicious smiles spreading across a few faces.
“What …?” was all he managed to utter, and a few boys giggled. From his place on the mat he could see the teacher’s feet, wrapped in cloth sandals. Rafik shook his head slowly; it felt almost too heavy to lift.
“Rafik Banishra,” Master Issak said, slowly punctuating every syllable, as if explaining the obvious, “Son of Sadre, could you please repeat the words of the Prophet Reborn, regarding the infidels?”
Rafik beamed, relieved. That was easy.
“They all burn in Hell, Master Issak,” he answered confidently.
There was a wave of laughter in the room and the teacher had to raise his voice to be heard.
“The exact words of the Prophet Reborn, Rafik, regarding the specific creatures of Satan, if you please?”
On any other day Rafik would have remembered the words of the new holy book, which the Prophet Reborn received from God before the Catastrophe and was filled with prophecies about the demise of the Tarakan infidels. Rafik knew many of the verses by heart—the ones about the unholy and the terrible justice that awaited them were his favourite by far—but not today. His head felt as heavy as stone and his thoughts were lost in a fog.
“Uh …” Rafik tried to buy time. “He … who … falls … into … temptation … will … go to Hell?”
Laughter swept the entire class again and fuelled Master Issak’s indignation.
“Rafik Banishra, on your feet and over here!” he shouted. Rafik rose unsteadily as the class shuffled to clear a path to the front of the room. Seeing another boy punished was much more interesting than reciting verse after holy verse.
Master Issak was dressed in white clothes of purity, but the look in his eyes was as dark as night. Even sitting down, he was taller than Rafik, and three times his width. The teacher shook his head as Rafik approached. When the boy stood two paces away the teacher brandished a short, flexible stick and watched with satisfaction as Rafik shuddered.
“Give me your hand,” he demanded.
Rafik was still for a moment, then he slowly raised his right hand towards the teacher.
Master Issak looked at the hand with disdain; it was full of scabs, red scratches, and bruises.
“What happened to your hand?”
“I fell, Master Issak,” Rafik said, unwilling to snitch about the boys’ argument over the Warrior and Infidels game, which had quickly turned into a scrap. Blushing did not help his lie, and the teacher let out a mirthless laugh before frowning again.
Master Isaak was quite fond of Rafik, who had a superb memory for the verses and was an enthusiastic student of the holy scripts. Perhaps under different circumstances Master Issak would have let the boy off with a stern warning, as he’d done before, when Rafik’s mischievousness had gotten him in trouble. But Rafik’s hopes were dashed when Master Issak took a deep breath filled with righteous rage. He grabbed the boy’s wounded hand and raised his stick. He began reciting the verses, delivering snapping blows with the stick every few words, Rafik wailed in pain with each accented word.
“Hear O the devout sons and daughters of Abraham. The Prophet Reborn, who rose from the days of fire, said; if you let temptation hold, you will fail your God. If you allow vanity and covet what humans must never have, you will fall the long way to all hells, where the impure are punished for their wish to be as powerful as the one God. You … shall … not … attach.”
Master Issak let go of Rafik’s bleeding hand and watched the boy walk unsteadily back to his mat and collapse. Eithan was already there, and the two boys huddled together.
After Rafik’s discipline, it was almost time for midday prayer, and the class needed to walk to the temple in the centre of the village. Master Isaak adjourned the class and stood by the door. As the boys walked up to him one by one, each kissed the book of the Prophet Reborn and bowed his head as the teacher inspected him for signs of the curse. Eithan fixed Master Issak with a defiant stare before bowing his head. Master Issak inspected him, then gave him a slap on the back of his head for good measure. Eithan suffered in silence, then stood by the open door and waited for Rafik, who was shuffling slowly and still holding his wounded hand.
Master Issak gently patted Rafik’s head. “Let it be a lesson to you, boy. You’re a good student, but forgetting the holy words of the Blessed Reborn demands retribution.”
Rafik nodded and pursed his lips. Master Issak noticed that blood still dripped to the floor from his wounded hand. A look of concern passed his eyes.
“You’re excused from prayer today, Rafik,” Master Issak said. “Go straight home. Let Eithan walk you there.”
He turned to Eithan. “You must swear by the Prophet to take him straight home and return immediately to prayer, understood?”
Eithan nodded. “Yes, Master