The fire cackled. Its rise and fall reminded Samira of the waves they had seen on the shore of Acre earlier that day.

  Jaleel’s firewood warmed the room as they sat on the floor of the family house. Khalid’s tiny chest rose and fell against her lap, and Jaleel’s fingers stayed laced with hers.

  Samira shifted slightly, careful not to wake Khalid, and let her eyes wander around the small room. The walls leaned in unevenly, patched with mud and clay. A narrow bench pressed against one side, piled with folded blankets. Tiny shelves held jars and little odds and ends, each catching the afternoon light that slanted through the window in thin, golden stripes. The floor beneath her was rough and cold, but the room felt alive in a quiet, gentle way, as if it had its own heartbeat. Even sitting still, with Khalid warm and heavy in her lap, she felt the pull of curiosity, ready to notice everything, even in a place that seemed ordinary.

  Jaleel’s thumb brushed against her fingers. He smiled. How she cherished that smile. The warmth of it felt like sunlight, carried somehow in his face.

  Samira stroked his hair, his mane as she liked to call it. His pride was unlike any other, just as it had been the day she met him.

  “My Lion,” she whispered, “you never change. Your real smile is still as elusive as the day I met you.”

  She hesitated, then added softly, “You still favor your left hand, you know. Don’t feel bad about it. Your father will understand one day. It’s just more comfortable for you.”

  Jaleel let out a quiet chuckle. Khalid stirred in Samira’s lap.

  “What are you talking about?” Jaleel said. “I never use my left hand anymore. And I smile all the time. See?”

  The smile he gave was crooked. Samira laughed and poked at his cheeks.

  “What kind of smile is that? You look like a street performer.”

  They laughed together, their hands tightening around each other. Samira glanced down at Khalid as Jaleel spoke.

  “You’ve changed, you know. Do you remember the day you first met him? How you held him up? How you said he was your greatest catch?”

  Samira flushed, fussing with her hair as she looked away from his grin.

  “Please. If I really wanted to, I’d still be out in the woods. The greatest catcher Al-Damun has ever seen isn’t retired yet.”

  Jaleel leaned in and kissed her forehead. Her breath caught as he pulled away.

  “If we’re talking about greatest catches,” he said, “you’re definitely up there for me. Maybe second.”

  Samira scoffed, half-laughing, half-offended.

  “Oh? And who’s first? I swear, if I catch you with another girl, Jaleel, so help me Allah—”

  Her voice softened as she looked down at Khalid, cheeks flushed, mouth slack with sleep.

  “I know who the first is,” she murmured. “It’s the first thing we ever shared in common, isn’t it?”

  Jaleel nodded as they drew closer together. There was no such thing as too close.

  “Our sweet little Khalid.”

  …

  Four years ago.

  1184AD, Al-Damun Village. 7 miles North East of Acre. (Jaleel is 10, Samira is 11, Khalid is 6)

  “Samira!” Her mother shouted at her, “Get back here! Your mother is calling you!”

  Samira bolted out of the door, her ‘catcher’ slung over her shoulder, as she made a beeline to the woods of the village. She darted past adults, trying to cut corners and evade her pursuer by any means.

  “Samira!” Her mother began to pant and slow down, “Just come back before sunset! Please, dear!”

  Samira heard the words vaguely as they drifted off into further obscurity, but her mind was preoccupied with other things, mainly…

  Bugs.

  She loved them, the way their legs moved, the patterns each distinct one had, the way they squirmed in her hand as she prodded their hides. It was fascinating. If there was any proof that Allah is the greatest of artists, that all life on earth was created in his image, to Samira, bugs were that proof.

  Samira approached the woods she loved so dearly, woods full of wonder and life, and her heart skipped a beat. Her face beamed ear to ear as she skipped into the lush green foliage of the Levant.

  …

  “Wow!” Samira exclaimed as she gently grabbed a bug in her palms, cupping her hands together tenderly. “I’ve never seen this pattern before, like a carpet, with such colour!”

  She placed the newly acquired creature inside her makeshift bug-catching net, which lay at her feet, already teeming with other creeping things. The net was hastily constructed from sticks she had broken off from decaying wood near the pens where the village stored its livestock, and from rags she was certain her mother would not notice had gone missing.

  Samira straightened and looked high into the sky. Sunset crept closer. She could not linger much longer; if she were late, Mother would make her sit with Imam Ishmail again, and even the tone in which he recited the hadiths made Samira’s eyelids grow heavy.

  “Hyah!”

  The shout rang out from somewhere beyond the trees, followed by the hollow thud of wood striking wood. Samira’s ears perked, her curiosity quickening. No insect made a sound like that. She prided herself on being Al-Damun’s expert on all things that crawled and fluttered, though some in the village called her strange. Samira knew they were the strange ones, for not seeing the beauty in small lives.

  The sound came again, a single thud. Then two. Then one, in a strange, uneven pattern. Samira could ignore it no longer. She followed the sound through the foliage, her hands tightening around her catcher. If something leapt at her from the brush, she could at least swat it aside.

  …

  “Hiyah!”

  A young boy stood drenched in sweat, a small, crude stick clutched in his left hand as he stared fiercely at the tree before him. His hair fell long and dark around his face, and even in exhaustion, his posture carried a stubborn pride. Samira lingered at the edge of the foliage, watching him.

  “Kiyah!”

  He swung again, each blow driven by something more than simple practice, as though he were striking at a thing only he could see. As he pivoted for another strike, Samira noticed a beetle at his feet, its wings lustrous and green, catching the light.

  “No!” she cried. “Your leg—you’re going to crush him!”

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  The boy spun, stick snapping up as Samira darted forward, scooping the beetle from the earth.

  “What are you doing?” he said, his face hardening. “Did Father send you?”

  Samira paid him little mind, turning the beetle in her hands, marveling at the hardness of its shell, the thickness of its legs. As she did, the boy’s voice cut in again.

  “Whether Father sent you or not,” he said, pointing the stick at her, “go away. I have no interest in talking.”

  Silence fell between them. Leaves rustled. A strong breeze passed overhead. Their gazes locked—his proud and unyielding, hers bright with curiosity, softened by a quiet, unassuming wisdom.

  “Okay,” Samira said at last. “We don’t need to talk.”

  She rifled through the bugs in her pack, still alive and crawling, until she found her prized catch of the day, a beetle much like the one he had nearly crushed. “We can just look at these instead.”

  Her smile flashed. He met it with a glare.

  “Leave me. I have no desire to look at insects.”

  He turned away, then added, “What kind of girl goes about catching bugs anyway?”

  Samira pouted. “Oh, I see how it is! I’ll change your mind someday.”

  He scoffed, and another dent marked the bark of the tree.

  Samira stalked back into the foliage. The village might never understand her collections, but he would. She would make sure of it.

  …

  “Mother!” Samira exclaimed as she slipped off her shoes at the door. “I’m home!”

  The Zuhir family compound was modest, like all the compounds in Al-Damun. Even the Al-Tazeem compound, though its head attended the great meetings of the village, was little different. Samira did not really understand what those men spoke about, nor did she care. If it was not about Islam or bug-catching, it had nothing to do with her.

  Samira had always found the compound charming. The clay walls kept out the worst of the heat, and the woven mats were soft enough to lie on when her legs grew tired. Jars by the wall rattled when the wind slipped through the narrow window.

  “Samira, dear, look at your clothes,” her mother sighed. “This is the third time this week you’ve come home a mess. Do you even look at yourself? It is disrespectful to Allah to be unclean, in both mind and body.”

  Samira lowered her head, staring at the green and brown stains on her trousers and shirt, the proof of hours spent crawling through grass and dirt. As her mother continued to scold her, no matter how gentle the tone, Samira felt her eyes begin to sting.

  “Dear…” Her mother’s voice faltered. She drew Samira into a tight embrace. “It’s alright. Go wash, okay? We are about to pray.”

  Her mother gave her one last soft smile before turning away. Samira lingered a moment in the doorway, her bug-catcher still clutched in her hand.

  …

  The next day, Samira did not even wait for sunrise before slipping on her slippers and grabbing her net. She went to the small corner of the compound where she kept her catches, all her bugs housed in a cracked clay pot. Some had died. Others clung stubbornly to life. Samira could only accept it as Allah’s will.

  She rummaged through the pot, careful not to crush anything with her fingers. Today, she would convince the boy with the scowling face that she was right.

  Her stroll through the village square was uneventful. A few adults waved to her in greeting. Others were still deep in Fajr*. But she knew the boy would be there, swinging that lump of wood around like always…

  …

  Samira lay hidden in the brush, half-buried in thick bushes and foliage, watching the boy from afar. She kept her eyes on his feet, wary that some careless step might crush an insect beneath him.

  “Hyah!”

  The boy cried out as he twisted and brought the stick down against his favourite tree. Samira thought he might finally be finished, but he pivoted and kicked the trunk with his left leg. Apples shook loose from the branches, and one struck Samira squarely on the forehead, blowing her cover.

  “Ow!” she yelped.

  The boy let out a sigh and dropped to sit against the tree he had been beating.

  “What’s your problem?” he said. “Why are you just watching me?”

  Samira knew it was now or never. She stepped from the cover of the bushes, schooling her face into the fiercest look she could manage.

  “What…” The boy clenched his stick tighter as she approached; she could sense his anticipation.

  “I need to ask you something.” Samira stopped dead in her tracks, staring the boy directly in his face. He gulped loudly.

  The pair stared at each other in silence.

  Samira raised two bugs in his face, their legs curling around, one olive colored, the other a light grey.

  “Which one do you prefer? I personally think—”

  The boy shoved her hands out of his face, his eyes closed, as he wore a tired look.

  “I’m leaving. Is all you think about bugs?”

  As he left to leave, Samira stared down at the floor in disbelief. These were the best bugs she had, and yet, no reaction.

  “Wait!” Samira cried, “What’s your name?”

  Samira pointed to her net, “I’m Samira! I promise… I promise one day I will bring you a catch worthwhile!”

  The boy stopped for a split second, he turned, and wore a grim snarl.

  “It’s Jaleel,” he said, “Jaleel Ibn Al-Tazeem.”

  …

  Weeks passed. None of the bugs Samira showed him, from beetles to dragonflies, seemed to impress him; every insect seemed to further agitate him—his frustrations emerged during his training. The sound of wood hitting wood blended in Samira’s ears seamlessly; she heard the knocks of Jaleel’s training just as regularly as she prayed to Allah. Maybe more.

  “Jaleel?”

  Samira waited until he was finished with his round of training. He started with 100 strikes in the mornings, when the sun was high above the sky, where he had the most energy.

  Jaleel’s head flew back, his eyebrow raising, “Yes?” his voice still as sharp and cold as ever, but Samira had grown used to the absence of warmth.

  “Why… Why are you training? Why not ask your Father to train with you?”

  Jaleel’s teeth churned as he looked at his wooden stick. He clenched it tight before responding.

  “My Father…” he hesitated, “He’s a fool… he refuses even the mention of training on the compound…”

  Samira stayed quiet as Jaleel paced around the grove, fury in his eyes.

  “He just doesn’t understand, he says foolish phrases like ‘War has no victors’ or ‘A true victory is the absence of war’, what will he do when the Nasara decide to attack? Or when brigands decide to raid us, and there are no soldiers to protect us?”

  Jaleel’s left hand twitched as he glared at Samira.

  “Then again, what would you know—”

  Samira cut him off.

  “I agree. This land isn’t big enough for the both of us.”

  Jaleel’s face fell in confusion, and Samira hurried on.

  “They ruin families. People say they burn villages, trample fields, take what they want. Even here, we hear about what they’ve done, all across the Holy Land, even as far as Antioch…”

  “Jaleel,” Samira stepped closer, setting her bug-catcher aside and placing both hands on his shoulders, “your father loves you. You are his son, his legacy. That’s why he doesn’t want you to fight. He couldn’t bear losing you to war.”

  Jaleel backed away with a scoff. “I’m not his only son.”

  Samira blinked. “What? You have a brother?”

  She straightened, eyes flashing.

  “And you only just thought to tell me!”

  Jaleel shrugged, resting his wooden stick against the tree where he always left it after training.

  “It’s none of your business. And I don’t want you bringing any of those disgusting insects near him.”

  He gave a humourless half-laugh. “Even so… my father is disappointed. His son, the pride of his family—an a?sar.”

  Samira glanced down. Only now did she notice that Jaleel always favoured the wrong hand when he trained, the one his father scolded him for.

  Her eyes lit up. She darted in a small circle, half-skipping in place, the few bugs she had caught that day seeming to dance with her. There had been fewer lately. For weeks, she had spent more time watching Jaleel train than she had hunting for beetles, whether she noticed it or not.

  “You have to show me him! How old is he? Is he as standoffish as you? Does he like catching bugs?”

  Jaleel rolled his eyes and nudged her back with his forearm.

  “No, no, and no. He’s not that much younger than us. And I’m not showing you.”

  Samira glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

  “Is that so…”

  …

  Jaleel did, in fact, show Samira.

  Samira half-carried half-dragged a reluctant Jaleel to the Al-Tazeem compound, he seemed to complain and occasionally thrash about, but Samira held tight, she wouldn’t let her curiosity be thwarted.

  When they arrived, Samira could not help but be underwhelmed, the Al-Tazeem compound was little more than a cluster of clay rooms around a dusty courtyard, its walls patched and sun-baked, no different from the homes of the other families in al-Dāmūn.

  Jaleel finally released himself from her grasp, and with a begrudging shrug he walked in front of her, and beckoned her.

  “Remove your shoes, surely a girl as rough as you knows not to keep them on in the compound.”

  She nodded, whilst she didn’t appreciate being called rough, this was not the time to get snappy, she was so close to seeing it—no, to seeing him. She followed Jaleel’s path through the compound.

  Jaleel slowly crept up the stairs inside the main section of the compound, each creak intensifying Samira’s heart rate, Jaleel’s breath seemed to stop as they reached the apex of the staircase, whether that was a trick of Samira’s mind, she could not say.

  “Here he is,” Jaleel whispered.

  The door creaked open, revealing a humble chamber of clay and brick. A tiny boy sat in the centre, playing with sticks, stones, and wooden toys, whatever he could find. No matter how crude the object, his eyes sparkled as he lifted it into the air.

  “Khalid! Come here for a second!”

  The older brother beckoned him close. Khalid padded over, barely reaching Jaleel’s knees, beaming, his hands clamped together behind his back as Jaleel patted his head.

  Samira had never seen Jaleel smile before, until now. His hand on Khalid’s head looked natural, as though gentleness had always been there, waiting for a world that did not demand hardness of him.

  “Samira?” Jaleel whipped his head back and saw tears on the young bug-catcher’s cheeks.

  “What is it? Why are you crying? What’s wrong with you?”

  Khalid shuffled in place, eyes wide, oblivious. Samira stepped closer, her vision blurring.

  “Jaleel… I told you I would find a catch worth your while, right?”

  Silence. Jaleel could only nod.

  “Well,” Samira said softly, “I finally did.”

  She scooped Khalid up, laughing through her tears, joy breaking across her face.

  “Here it is,” she whispered, “the greatest catch of them all.”

  Khalid Ibn Al-Tazeem.