Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 84026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
He wrote our lessons in the sand and then once complete, wiped them away with the brush of a frond. And with each swipe, a small piece of my perspective disappeared as well. My mind began reaching toward the things Ahmad described that existed in the broken world beyond: seas and mountains, canyons and fields of endless flowers, and trees so mighty and tall they both kept cliffs from crumbling and stretched into the sky. He told us of striped zebras, and laughing hyenas, and creatures so small you couldn’t see them with your own two eyes. But despite my imaginings, despite my endless questions about heights and colors, textures, and numbers, the pictures my mind conjured felt underwhelming and dissatisfying.
I wanted to see them for myself, if only in sketched drawings done by skilled artists who had experienced them in person.
And in this way Ahmad had been right. Sundara suddenly didn’t feel like enough.
Were these the things Zakai considered as he stared out at the desert, trying to see beyond the sand?
One afternoon as I was passing by the courtyard, I heard Ahmad and Zakai’s low murmur of conversation and peeked around the corner.
Ahmad was drawing on the ground as Zakai asked him questions, pointing to something and moving his finger from one spot to another. But when Zakai spotted me, he wiped the sand away, standing and accompanying me to lunch where I’d been headed.
“What was Ahmad drawing for you?” I asked later in the privacy of our bed, my voice low and whispered.
Zakai paused for many moments but then answered. “A map.”
“A map,” I repeated. “A representation of an area, land, or sea,” I said, remembering when Zakai had first asked about them, and Ahmad’s later definition when I’d asked. Ahmad always grew quiet and pensive when I posed too many questions pertaining to geography, or how large Forastan was. I’d considered that even Ahmad, the wisest person I knew, might not know everything. But maybe he knew more than he shared with me. Only . . . why share only with Zakai? Confusion descended, and something not unlike resentment. “What map was he drawing?” I asked.
“The desert,” he answered.
“The desert? But why? There’s nothing in the desert.”
“It’s what sits between Sundara and . . . freedom,” he answered.
“Forastan,” I murmured. And though the things Ahmad had taught me about had increased my curiosity about the places . . . beyond, I still feared it too. I turned toward Zakai, taking in his moonlit profile, the strong line of his jaw, the straight slope of his nose, the shadow of his lashes, and the softness of his mouth. “But . . . it’s much too far to walk,” I said. “We’ve been told.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “We’ve been told.” He paused. “Ahmad says it’s not the walking but the amount of water we’d need to carry,” he murmured, his expression troubled.
Alarmed by the conversation, I opened my mouth to speak when I spotted the edge of a piece of paper underneath his pillow and grasped it, pulling it out. My brows knitted as I took in what appeared to be a perfect sketch of the plane, words, and numbers printed as they were in books. I looked to Zakai who was watching me warily, his lips set in a thin line. “What is this?” I demanded, shaking the paper.
“Instructions on how to fly the plane.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I took it from the plane.”
I gaped at him, envisioning Zakai sneaking down the stairs and running to where the plane was parked, climbing up and stealing what was inside. The picture terrified me.
“You think you can learn to fly the plane by reading about it?”
He huffed. “Why not? Maybe. Can’t you see it, Karys?” He raised his hand and moved it upward. “We could rise into the sky. Away.”
My shoulders dropped and I slid the paper back beneath Zakai’s pillow, the vision he’d described doubling my fear. “No,” I said. “Please Zakai. Please don’t do anything dangerous,” I begged. “It’s not worth risking your safety!”
His eyes moved slowly over my features for a moment, concession entering his expression. He nodded once. “No,” he said. “Safety is important.”
And then he gathered me in his arms, and closed his eyes to sleep. But I still lay awake. A shiver of unease filtered through me. Safety is important. Yes. Of course it was. What could be more important than that?
Sleep had eluded me of late as I stared out the window into the night sky beyond. There were planets out there. Planets and galaxies, comets and dark black holes where the gravity pulled so hard, not even a particle of light could escape. Sometimes, Ahmad had told me, his eyes held to mine, that was what happened when a star began to die.