Saving a Child From God Read online

  Saving A Child From God © Dave Franklin, 2016

  Published by Baby Ice Dog Press

  Cover by James at Go On Write

  ****

  Chapter One

  Ibrahim Anwar knocked on the bathroom door as he waited for his son to finish wudu.

  “Abdullah...?”

  A pause. “Almost done.”

  Ibrahim nodded, aware of the sulky undertone. How much longer was he going to keep this up? Still, at least he was being cordial. The first twenty-four hours after confiscating that silver cross – in which Abdullah had alternated between prolonged silence and angry outbursts – had bordered on the unbearable.

  Those birds.

  For a moment he considered banning his son from ever feeding them again but just as quickly dismissed the notion. It would break his heart. Even so, there were times when he thought the whole thing was getting out of hand, if not a little eerie.

  The bathroom door opened and Abdullah walked out with downward eyes.

  “Did you complete all eight steps?”

  “Yes, father.”

  Ibrahim nodded. At least it was pleasing to see how the boy had finally become diligent in his preparations for fajr, God’s most favoured prayer. Less than a year ago he’d struggled to get up, yawned repeatedly and needed to be supervised to make sure he properly cleansed himself, especially when it came to snuffing his nose. Nowadays he didn’t even need an alarm clock to get out of bed.

  Ibrahim smiled. “OK, then. Put on your skull cap and I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.”

  The boy took a couple of steps toward the stairs but hesitated and half-turned while staring at the floor with clasped hands.

  Ibrahim noted the time-honoured signs of an impending apology. “Yes, Abdullah...?”

  “I forgive you, father.”

  Hamdullah, although he resisted the impulse to say he had nothing to be forgiven for. The most important thing was to re-establish harmony.

  “You forgive me...?”

  “Yes, you are my father and the Koran says I should be good and dutiful to you and address you in terms of honour. It is wrong to be angry...” He swallowed. “With you.”

  “Thank you, Abdullah. I am sorry we quarrelled. I hope...” He smiled. “I hope one day you will understand.”

  “Yes...” Abdullah looked away. “But I wasn’t going to wear it, I was just going to...” He chewed his bottom lip. “There is something else...”

  “OK.”

  “I dreamed...”

  “Yes...?”

  “I was... flying with the birds.”

  Ibrahim took a breath. The boy was becoming obsessed.

  “Well... that sounds like a nice dream, but I’m running a little late. Why don’t you tell me about it on the way to salah?”

  Abdullah nodded and scampered down the stairs. Ibrahim filled the sink and cleansed all the necessary body parts three times, starting with the hands and finishing with the feet. As he dried himself, he thought about his decision to confiscate the inch-long cross that had probably been part of a necklace or earring. Abdullah had loved it (“It’s treasure, daddy! They’ve brought me treasure!”), but he declared straightaway he could not keep it.

  Tears and strong words followed as he repeatedly explained it would be impossible for him to hang onto an example of another religion’s insignia, especially one that pervertedly insisted God was a trinity who had sired a son. Did he really need reminding he had been born a Muslim and the noble Koran was the final revelation of God?

  Ibrahim went downstairs and found Abdullah sitting on the porch step. He took his hand as they started walking along the dark street, pleased it had once again taken on its warm, pliable quality. He relaxed, doing his best to appreciate the early morning peace and quiet. This was how things should be. A father and son on their way to glorify Allah. Perhaps one day they would circumambulate the Kaaba together.

  Inshallah.

  It was a shame Abdullah had only been a toddler (and therefore too young) when he’d undertaken hajj, his awe-inspiring pilgrimage to the centre of the universe three years ago. There he’d been roused from sleep by the call to prayer. Was it possible for there to be a more beautiful way to be woken? If only the adhan were allowed in Wales... Then he could accompany Abdullah to fajr with the muezzin’s melodious reciting making the very air thrum with the presence of God.

  “Abdullah, you said you had a dream.”

  “Yes!” He felt the boy’s excitement as Abdullah began swinging his arm. “Me and you were feeding the birds. They came down and they were eating but then they picked me up and my feet left the ground and I was flapping my arms like this” – He broke away to demonstrate – “and I was flying with them really high and I wanted you to come and I tried to come back for you but the birds, they said no, I don’t know why, and I could see you on the ground really tiny in the back garden and I shouted at you to try to fly but you just waved and stayed where you were. Why didn’t you come with me?”

  Ibrahim couldn’t help smiling as they turned the corner at the end of the street and began walking down the hill toward the common. Only a child could ask such an impossible question.

  “Tell me, daddy,” the boy said, pulling on his hand. “Why didn’t you come?”

  “Because... I don’t know... Why do you think?”

  “I’m not sure... I just remember looking back and seeing you still in the garden really small, like I was losing you.”

  Ibrahim frowned. “And what was it like, flying with the birds?”

  “Amazing!”

  “And did they take you anywhere?”

  “I... I... don’t know... Maybe. I can’t remember. It’s all... Will you come with me the next time?”

  He placed a hand on the back of his son’s head. “I’ll do my best. That’s a promise. What do you think they’ll bring you today?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe some more Lego.”

  “How many pieces do you have now?”

  “Four.”

  “I wonder where they find it all. Hope they’re not stealing it.”

  For a while they walked in silence. Ibrahim’s step slowed when he spotted two young white guys loitering by a streetlight. The one in a dark hoodie and red tracksuit pants was obviously the worse for wear as he laughed and pointed at his mate while banging on the bonnet of a green Ford Escort. Ibrahim decided to cross the road, switching hands with Abdullah to shield him. As they drew level with the drunken pair on the opposite side, he risked a glance only to see the guy in the hoodie nudge his mate. Ibrahim quickened his pace.

  “Oi!” came the slurred shout. “Don’t go blowin’ us up!” The other one cackled. “Hey, you! Why doncha piss off back to Muslim land? Eh? You listnin me?”

  Then he heard running footsteps. He tensed, expecting a shove. Instead the guy dodged round to the front, causing him to halt in the centre of the road. Even under the weak street lighting he could make out his reddened eyes.

  “Why you wearing a dress?” He swayed, looking him up and down. “You a poofter or sumfin?”

  “Please...” He swallowed, aware of Abdullah clinging to his side. “I have my son. Let us pass.”

  The guy stared hard at him before dropping his vision to Abdullah. He burped and grinned. Then he loudly spat and stepped aside.

  “Lucky for you. Go on, get.”

  Ibrahim quickly got onto the pavement again. He refused to look over his shoulder, sensing the guy’s mate had joined him in the road and they were both staring at their backs.

  “Daddy, why – ”

  “Just keep walking, Abdullah. Don’t worry. We’re almost there.”

  “Daddy, you’re hurting my hand.”

  “W
hat...?” He relaxed his grip. “Sorry.”

  Thankfully, the yobbos didn’t pursue them or yell any more abuse. The last thing he heard was a can being kicked along the street as he turned the corner and saw Tiverby’s mosque.

  “But daddy... why did he say those things?”

  “Because... Because of alcohol, that’s why.” He stopped and bent so he was level with Abdullah’s face. “It changes your behaviour, turns you into a bad, ugly person who can say or do anything. This is why our beloved Prophet, peace be upon him, told us to steer clear of it. You will never find the true path to Allah with alcohol, Abdullah. Remember your Koran: Satan’s plan is to excite enmity and hatred between you with intoxicants and gambling, and hinder you from the remembrance of God, and from prayer. Will ye not then refrain?”

  Abdullah solemnly nodded. “Don’t worry, father. I know alcohol is bad.”

  He straightened again. “Good boy.”

  “Can I pray for them, pray that they don’t drink alcohol again?”

  “Of course. I will pray for them, too.”

  They arrived at the mosque and removed their shoes. Abdullah went to step inside but Ibrahim stopped him.

  “Make sure you put your right foot inside first.”

  “Why, daddy?”

  “Because that’s how our Prophet did it.”

  They quietly entered to find about ten others starting to line up. Ibrahim intended to do two rakats, at ease with the knowledge that this latest worship might be his last, such was the fearful and all-encompassing power of Allah. He raised his palms so they were level with the top of his shoulders.

  “Allah akbar.”

  After joining the row with Abdullah he tried hard to clear his mind but troubling echoes of the men’s drunken aggression kept popping up in his head. It had been a while since he’d been abused in the street. Most of the townspeople were fine, if a little wary, but things tended to get uncomfortable after a major terrorist attack.

  Ibrahim took a deep breath and tried to focus again. Still he struggled. He glanced around and noticed a gap of more than a foot between himself and the casually dressed worshipper on his left. More than enough for the devil to slip between and plant that yobbo’s sneering voice in his head. He moved closer so their shoulders were almost touching and immediately felt his concentration improve.

  Ibrahim bowed and studied the patch of carpet in front of him that his forehead would soon touch. He crossed hands, rested them on his navel and began reciting.

  “In the name of Allah, The Beneficent, the Merciful. Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds. The Beneficent, the Merciful. Master of the Day of Judgement. Thee alone we worship. Thee alone we ask for help. Show us the straight path, the path of those whom Thou hast favoured, not the path of those who earn Thine anger nor of those who go astray.”

  He recited another surah before he bent with both palms on his knees, making sure his back was parallel to the ground. “Glory be to my Lord, the Almighty.” He straightened, keeping one eye on Abdullah. “Allah hears those who praise Him.”

  Ibrahim knelt and placed his forehead, nose and palms on the carpet with both elbows raised, making sure all his toes were touching the floor. This was always the moment he felt closest to Allah. “Glory be to my Lord, the Most High.” He sat back on his knees with his feet folded under his body, aware of the Creator’s piercing eyes upon him. “O, my Lord, forgive me.” A sense of peace and wellbeing descended over him as he offered his total submission again. He stood and began the cycle anew.

  He finished praying by turning his head to the right and acknowledging the angel on his shoulder that recorded his good deeds. “Peace be upon you, and God’s blessing.” He turned to the left and did the same with the angel that recorded his wrongful deeds.

  He left the mosque by stepping outside with his left foot first. Dawn had started to break. He stood talking with friends about work until Abdullah began excitedly pointing at a dove that had landed on a ledge of the minaret.

  “The birds, daddy! The birds!”

  “OK, OK.” Ibrahim shook hands and said his goodbyes as Abdullah kept an eye on the strutting dove.

  “Daddy, do you ever think that when a bird walks along the edge of a high building and its foot slips, it says, ‘That was lucky! I almost fell off!’ And then it thinks, that doesn’t matter because I can fly!”

  Ibrahim smiled and put a hand around the boy’s thin shoulders. “Maybe. I hadn’t really thought about it. Are you playing football over the park later?”

  “Yes! I’m the best striker. So much better than Paul and Steve. I can use my left foot and they can’t. And I can do the most keepy-ups.”

  Ibrahim took out his cigarettes and started smoking as he listened to Abdullah ramble on about football. Once they got to their home street he noticed something a little different about next door’s front garden. He frowned and tried to work out what it was.

  Then it clicked.

  The For Sale sign had been taken down. It would be great if the new neighbours were Muslim, although that was a very long shot in a place as small as Tiverby. Polite, modest and respectable people would do just fine.

  Abdullah ran into the kitchen to begin his bird-feeding preparations. Ibrahim went outside and sat on the garden bench under the kitchen window as the sky continued to lighten. A couple of crows alighted on the rear wall and watched with cocked heads, occasionally cawing.

  The crows were always the first to arrive.

  Ibrahim reached up and rapped the kitchen window. “Hurry up, Abdullah! They’re here.”

  It had all begun during the summer of two years ago. Abdullah had gone through a determined al fresco phase of wandering out into the garden with his food, dropping almost as much as he managed to eat. His clumsiness was soon noticed by the crows and they began turning up in ever larger numbers, waiting for their easy feed. In turn, he noticed them and asked for extra food.

  It seemed like a pretty harmless request, especially as feeding them obviously made him happy. And as the Prophet said, Whoever is kind to the creatures of God is kind to himself. Then Abdullah begged for a bird table and birdbath to be installed. Again, no problem. Before long it wasn’t just crows that were flocking to the garden, but pigeons, sparrows, starlings, tits, thrushes, seagulls, the odd robin (his favourite), and even a cute, nimble pair of squirrels.

  But whatever the species, they possessed very little fear of Abdullah. Most took a long time to flee upon his approach. In fact, they often seemed attracted to him and Ibrahim would never forget the spellbinding moment when his son slowly reached out to a crow on a lowlying tree branch, stroked its back and began whispering to it. The bird loudly cawed, as if enjoying a secret conversation.

  Oddly enough, it wasn’t long after that encounter that they started leaving gifts in the birdbath. Or more accurately, junk of all imaginable kinds that included a broken light bulb, a yellow paper clip, a bright red button and a green piece of glass worn smooth by the sea.

  But despite their worthlessness, he knew the objects ranked among his son’s most precious possessions. Each one was giddily scooped out of the birdbath before being neatly labelled with its delivery time and individually stored in the compartment of a plastic bead box.

  And, of course, any visitor to the house was automatically shown the very odd collection while treated to a machinegun-like commentary in which Abdullah was likely to state his ardent belief that peacocks, eagles and ostriches would soon start turning up.

  The birds did not bring gifts every day – weeks could go by without anything – and during such lean times Abdullah’s mood would noticeably dip, as if he believed he’d somehow caused offence. Occasionally Ibrahim was troubled by the sight of his son praying out by the birdbath. More than once he’d thought of putting an end to the whole show but had been unable to find anything in Islamic law which prohibited such a ‘relationship’ – if that were the right word.

  Mostly, however, such doubts paled next to the magical mo
ments of watching his overjoyed son interact with the majestic beauty of Allah’s Earth-bound creations.

  Abdullah finally emerged from the kitchen, weighed down by the bags of food and a bottle of water. He went straight to the birdbath, splashed away the existing water and refilled it as the number of birds greatly increased. Obviously some sort of signal had gone out, prompting them to flock to the surrounding fences, walls and trees. A few dozen of the more wary perched on the street’s telephone wires, but wherever they alighted their excitement was tangible, demonstrated in a relentless series of hops, squawks and squabbles.

  Abdullah trailed seeds and nuts across the grass and skipped across to the bird table’s three platforms to clear the remnants of yesterday’s meal. Ibrahim watched him carefully spread the food before retreating to his side on the bench. A moment later the garden erupted into a feathered flurry.

  “See how many there are today, daddy!”

  “Yes,” he said, putting an arm around him. “They really like those peanuts, don’t they? We’ll have to get some more.”

  They watched in silence for a few minutes until Abdullah pointed at a large crow perched on the birdbath’s rim. It was holding an object in its stout black bill.

  “Look! He’s brought me something.”

  Abdullah jumped up but Ibrahim grabbed him. “Whoah! Not so fast. Let him drop it first.” In the past his son’s over-enthusiasm had resulted in the gift-bearer getting spooked, forcing him to wait at least twenty-four hours for its return.

  Abdullah sat again, barely able to keep still. “What does it have? I can’t see. What is it?”

  Ibrahim leaned forward and squinted. “I don’t know, but it’s thin and looks a little heavy.”

  Then the crow dropped the object into the water with a tiny plop! Abdullah was immediately on his feet as it cawed and flew five or six feet up to the top of the rear wall. Ibrahim stood, surprised at the intensity of his own curiosity as his son sprinted over and delved into the shallow water.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a key! A key!”

  Abdullah held it aloft and did a circular jig. Then he bowed before the crow on the wall. As he turned and stood in a slightly bent posture scrutinising the key, the bird fluttered down and landed on his head.