Godsend. John Wray

here are my cousins, said Decker. —Altaf and Yaqub. Altaf used to be a talib at this school.

      She shifted from one foot to the other, unsure what to do next. —I’m honored to know you, she murmured in Arabic. They nodded and touched their right palms to their chests.

      —My brother has no Arabic, the one called Altaf said.

      —That’s all right. She smiled at him. —I have no Urdu.

      —Urdu is a dirty language. You are better for not having it. It is the language of the ignorant. Of vagrants.

      Decker gave a laugh she hadn’t heard before. He’s laughing in Urdu, she thought. Or in Pashto. The man called Yaqub nodded again and laughed uncomprehendingly, looking at each of them in turn. His features were the gentlest of the three.

      —I’m sure that’s not the case, she said. —Please tell your brother that.

      —Your Arabic is beautiful, the man said, ignoring her comment. —You speak it very sweetly. As if reading from a poem.

      As he said this a question or a doubt crossed her mind and she glanced at Decker, hoping for some sign, but Decker’s face and eyes were closed to her. She understood now what had changed him. The arrival of these men. The one called Altaf watched her slyly and his brother bobbed his heavy head behind him. They might have been grinning at the way she wore her clothes or at her pronunciation of Arabic or simply at the paleness of her skin. They might have been grinning at nothing. She looked from Altaf back to Decker and saw no resemblance there.

      —You are a favored student here, the one called Altaf said. —Uniquely favored. I’m told you have a whole room to yourself. His grin shifted subtly. —Perhaps this is why your Arabic is still so pure.

      —You studied here, with Mu’allim Hayat?

      Altaf shrugged.

      —When was that?

      —Perhaps six years ago or seven.

      —How long did it take?

      —How long?

      —To learn the Recitation. She sat forward with her elbows on her knees, as she’d seen the men doing the evening before. —I hope to have it learned within the year.

      Altaf’s expression clouded. Decker said something to him but he gave a quick hard laugh and shook his head. Again she’d committed some error.

      —I failed to learn the Recitation, Altaf told her. He said it carelessly, as if the fact were of no consequence. —To commit the Book to memory, Brother Suleyman, one has to keep one’s distance from the troubles of this world.

      —Of course, Decker put in. —Just look who runs this place.

      —I disappointed the mu’allim. I broke off my course of studies.

      She apologized and did her best to cover her confusion. She had known that the compound was open to people from the village and to travelers as well but she had no recollection of either Altaf or his brother at the first or second prayer. It seemed a grievous sin to use the school for any other purpose.

      —The mu’allim must not be displeased with you, Brother Altaf, she said. —After all, he’s received you into his house.

      Altaf shook his head. —We’re not here for the old man, he said. —We came to see our cousin. Your good friend.

      —My mistake, she heard herself mumble. —I thought—

      —Our cousin has grown into a man, Brother Suleyman, as you can see. Altaf took Decker fondly by the collar. —You yourself, who are still a child, have much to discover before you can follow his lead.

      —I do, she said, looking down at the gravel.

      —What’s that?

      —I do. I have much to discover.

      —And you shall, if God wills it. He rested a hand on her shoulder. —Apply yourself, little brother, that you may follow soon.

      With that the two men rose and moved unhurriedly along the shaded wall of the courtyard and up the concrete steps into the house. They greeted no one and returned no one’s greeting. Decker kept his eyes on them until they had passed out of sight.

      —Who are those men, Decker?

      —I told you. My cousins.

      —Do you want to explain to me what the hell is going on?

      —Brother Suleyman! I thought you’d given up cursing. I must have misunderstood.

      —I’m going to ask you one more time.

      —And then what?

      —And then I guess you stand to lose a friend.

      He said nothing to that, tugging idly at the hem of his kameez. She took in breath in steady pulls and waited for his answer. She felt far from things but calm and wide awake.

      —One of them is, he said at last. —My cousin, I mean. Yaqub’s father was the one who hooked us up with this madrasa. He’s my father’s older brother. He lives a few towns over.

      —He didn’t look anything like you. Or like your father either.

      —Can’t help you there, Sawyer.

      —What do they want from us?

      He gave her no answer. Across the courtyard the others were getting to their feet and brushing the dust from their shirtfronts. She willed herself to speak softly.

      —Why didn’t you introduce us yesterday?

      —I told you already. They didn’t feel comfortable. They’re kind of twitchy.

      Again she sat back and waited. It didn’t take long.

      —They’re hiding out, said Decker.

      —Who from?

      —Come on, Sawyer. They’re not going to tell me that. If they did they’d have to shoot me or something.

      —It almost sounds like that would make your day.

      His face took on an air of gravity. —I probably shouldn’t have told you this much, even. They don’t trust you yet.

      —They don’t have to trust me. I came here for school.

      —I guess I’ll have to take your word on that.

      —Decker, you’d better tell me—