I reached out and laid my hand upon his on the bench. “No,” I insisted. “I could never hate you.”
“I could,” I heard a familiar voice growl, my head whipping around to see Zakai behind us, his gaze moving from me, to Ahmad, and finally to the book on the bench between us. “What the hell is going on here?”
I came to my feet and so did Ahmad. “Zakai,” I breathed, moving to him and taking his hands in mine, pulling him forward into the courtyard. I’d already done something that might bring unpleasant things for Ahmad when I’d only been trying to help. I would do anything not to add to that. My mind spun with lies I might tell Zakai. But how could I? He knew me better than I knew myself. And as Haziq had pointed out, I was a poor liar. “Ahmad . . . we . . . he’s—”
“I’m teaching her how to read,” Ahmad said.
Zakai’s jaw ticked and his eyes grew tumultuous with disapproval. “She’s already good at it,” Ahmad said, and I was surprised to hear the gentleness in his voice, as though he knew the words would wound Zakai and felt regretful that they did.
Zakai’s shoulders lowered very minutely, sadness passing through his eyes. I’d lied to him. I’d hurt him and my heart grieved to know it. I quickly picked up the book and opened it, imploring Zakai with my eyes, eager to show him that what I had learned filled me with happiness, and hopeful that my joy would spur his own.
I began reading randomly, my finger skimming the lines as I worked diligently through the words. “But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor, into the season-less world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed. For love is sufficient unto love. And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.”
I was breathless when I finished, my gaze lifting to Zakai’s. He was staring at me, a type of sadness I’d never seen on his face before. It startled me and I blinked at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, turning to Ahmad. “You know how to read,” he stated. “Do you know numbers too?”
“Yes,” Ahmad said.
“And maps?”
Ahmad frowned. “Maps must be drawn.”
“Can you draw them?”
“In the sand, yes. But they must not stay. And, Zakai, a map won’t do you any good.”
Zakai nodded solemnly. “Continue teaching her,” he said, “but please teach me too.”
CHAPTER SIX
Over the next six moons, Ahmad taught Zakai and me to read and to write, to add and to subtract. He taught us that everything could be measured and weighed and broken down into units and degrees, volumes, and periods of time. Could forever be measured, I wondered. Kindness? Love? But when I asked Ahmad these questions, he just smiled broadly and chucked me under my chin. “Not by me, Karys. Even the greatest scientists haven’t figured that one out yet, but perhaps someday you will know the breakdown of love.”
I thought about that. “Maybe love can’t be broken down,” I pondered. “Maybe love is only whole, or it isn’t love at all.”
Ahmad smiled again, but this time his smile was sad.
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!”