Maliha stood outside the door, her bear in hand while her father stuffed a squirming, very confused chicken into one bag and held another small plastic bag overflowing with flatbread.
Reza had begun to paint the door red, using red paint that he had apparently been storing in his room and an old shirt to wipe it on the door. Red splatters reflected the gray moonlight off the ground and around the stone doorframe.
“Is that how you will protect this house?” Papa asked him.
“I will invite the jinn into this house. They will protect me. They will help me find a wife, and to thank them I will give her to them. Praise be to Allah!” His movements were erratic, the frantic thrashings of a madman who fought for his sanity.
“Do you remember the last time the sun shone in this valley Reza?” Papa asked him, his voice sullen.
“Yes.” Uncle Reza’s arms fell to his side.
Gunshots echoed through the valley. They were coming from several houses to the south. The screams of dying men followed.
“It was the day that the jinn were invited into this valley to protect us. I think that on that day Allah covered the valley in clouds because he was ashamed of us and didn’t want to look at us anymore.”
Reza didn’t reply. Slowly he began to wipe the red paint across the door. His arms appeared to be heavier than they had been before.
“Let’s go, Maliha,” her father said. The two ran toward the road.
The sounds of screams and gunfire followed them.
Her lungs burned, and she began to fall behind. Her small legs could not keep pace with her father. His strides were long, and even with his pegged foot he was able to move through the fields faster than her.
She fought for the breath to speak. “Papa, I’m too tired,” she said.
He reached back and scooped her up, and dropped the chicken in the bag.
It clucked in protest on the ground behind them.
They ran, Maliha holding tightly to her father’s neck and to her bear.
“Cluck! Clu—” The chicken screamed… then was silenced.
Her father panted in her ear and ran as fast as he could.
He stepped onto the road.
A dark figure became visible behind them.
Maliha screamed, “Papa!” Then she closed her eyes.
The sound of gravel scraping and a rush of wind blew past her. She felt herself falling fast, her father holding her tightly, spinning in the air. She landed on her father with a deep thud, knocking the wind out of him. He threw her aside.
She rolled across the gravel road. Sharp rocks scratched her skin and dust dried her mouth. She opened her eyes to see her father being dragged down into the ditch beside the road. He screamed. His eyes were locked on to Maliha.
“Maliha.” Her bear shook in her arms.
“Maliha.” Her bear grew warm.
Her father’s screams were cut short.
A gnashing, tearing sound followed.
Her knees shook and she fought to stand. Her palms burned, and she rolled over. She struggled to stand upright.
“You have to run,” her bear coached her.
She felt a sense of abandonment clawing at her on the inside. She stood alone with her bear in hand on the edge a single-lane road. A massive cliff stretched high into the sky on one side, and a small ditch below the road on the other where her father had carried her up. Before he was dragged back down.
The sound of scratching claws and plodding hooves traveled up the ditch toward her.
“Not this child,” her bear said. The soft fur became too hot for her to hold. She dropped it onto the road and stumbled backward.
The bear stood upright defiantly.
Maliha closed her eyes again. She hoped that the darkness would protect her. She hoped if she couldn’t see the monster, it could not see her.
“Come down here,” Papa’s voice said from down in the ditch. “It is ok, Maliha.”
“Papa?” Maliha asked, hoping she was about to wake up from a nightmare.
“Not this CHILD!” Her bear screamed. A flash of heat erupted out, followed by a burst of light that penetrated Maliha’s tightly shut eyelids.
The stench of burnt flesh filled her nostrils. She snorted then covered her nose.
A warm furry hand rubbed against her arm. “It is ok, but we need to go. I’m very tired now,” her bear said.
Maliha opened her eyes to see two smoking corpses, one in the ditch, and the other on the road, black heaps of charred flesh piled on the ground. She reached down and scooped up her bear.
She looked out over the quiet valley and down toward the road. “Come on, Maliha, you have to walk,” her bear reassured her.
Maliha swallowed hard and began to walk down the road.
“Are you my mama?” Maliha asked.
“No, sweetie, she is dead.”
“And Papa?”
“Yes, him too.”
“Am I alone?” Maliha asked.
“Yes, sweetie, but I will stay with you as long as I can.”
“Thank you.” Maliha hugged her bear close and walked down the center of the winding, gray road.
Adam Fenner 