Free Never Fear by Heather Graham Page A

themselves into the
dirty cavern dug beneath the house. There was barely enough room
for the five of them. The cramped quarters did not bother Sabra so
much as the fear of spiders and scorpions hiding in the hole as
well. Those creatures could be just as deadly as the militants and
did not care if they were Christians, Muslims, or Jews.
    Their hosts rolled the petrol drums
back into place and Mother began her prayers. Sabra prayed as well,
asking God to send the truck past them, hoping it was nothing more
than a farmer out running errands despite the warplanes
sporadically circling the skies. The truck screeched to a halt
outside the courtyard walls and Qadir clasped a hand around Fahim’s
mouth before the child could cry.
    “ As-salamu
alaykum ,” Waleed said. Sabra heard men
jumping from the bed of the truck and talking to each other. They
rushed into the courtyard, sheep and goats bleating and scattering.
“Be careful! You will chase my herd off. What is it you
want?”
    “ Where are the others?” a
man asked.
    “ What others?” Waleed said.
    “ Do you know who I am?”
the man said, his voice deep and calm, just like Sabra remembered
of her grandfather before he passed away. A moment of silence held
between them, punctuated by the herd’s continued cries. “I am
Asadullah bin Bahdur.” The name added to Sabra’s fear. She did not
know who he was, but one was not named “The Lion of God, son of the
Warrior” by a father intending to raise a weak and merciful
son.
    “ Welcome to my home,
Asadullah. How may I, a simple farmer, assist you?”
    “ I will ask again, where
are the others?”
    “ And I will ask once more,
what others?”
    “ You have two children and
nine places set for dinner. You may be a simple farmer, but I
suspect you know how to count.”
    A goat scurried up to the petrol
drums, sniffing at the ground.
    “ I did not know how many
you would be bringing for dinner,” Waleed said, “so I had my wife set
all the extra plates we had. Come, your dinner is getting
cold.”
    The goat began stomping at the ground
and bleating loudly.
    “ Shoo, get out of here,”
Qadir whispered. He tried to throw a rock at the animal, but he did
not have enough room to move his arms.
    “ What is that animal so
interested in?” Asadullah shouted. One of his men plodded toward
the petrol drums. Sabra fought harder and harder to keep from
screaming as the footsteps came close. Instead of coming from her
throat, her fear forced its way from her eyes in a stream of tears.
Mother pulled Sabra close to her bosom, a prayer to St. Michael the
Archangel whispered on her lips. Sabra had not learned the prayer
yet, but she tried her best to add her voice to Mother’s
whispers.
    “ I am here. Wait. I am
coming out.” Sabra reached out and grabbed onto Father’s hand as he
shouted and wormed his way out of the hole and between the
barrels.
    “ No,” she squealed
quietly. “Do not go. Please.” Father peeled her fingers away and
crawled out of their hiding place.
    “ Show me your hands! Do
not move!” the militant shouted a moment before dragging Father
from the hole completely.
    “ Well, that accounts for
one place setting. Where are the others?” said
Asadullah.
    “ My family has moved on. I
sent them ahead.”
    “ Now why would you be
hiding someone from me, simple farmer?”
    “ They were not hiding me.
They took us in and fed us because we were hungry and cold. They
were giving us charity.”
    “ Why would you be in need
of charity? It sounds to me like you were attempting to flee the
Caliphate. Why would you be fleeing from the Caliph’s rule? Do you
fear God’s law?”
    Another moment of silence hung in the
air, Father thinking carefully of his answer. He knew his children
would hear his answer. They had not fled their home only to deny
their faith now.
    “ I will not pay the jizya ,” he
said.
    “ A kafir ? Abd-al Meseeh ,” Asadullah said,
accusing Father of being a “slave to the