Ghosts

It was light when Jamal woke, but no one was up and about. Morning should have been the noisiest, the busiest time of day, but nothing was moving. He sat trying to decide if he was really awake, looking at the walls of the hut, checking that everything was where it ought to be, straining to hear the sounds of the camp. Straining to hear, what? There was nothing to hear. Last night's attack was definitely over and the hut seemed OK, and – even better – Jamal was still alive, so that was all good, but the silence was definitely not good.

If it was light he should hear children squabbling, uncles finishing their prayers and aunties starting breakfast and hushing their babies, but there was nothing. He couldn't even hear the ear-buzzing hum that usually followed the bombs. Everywhere was totally, utterly silent.

Jamal realised just how frightened he was; frightened, but not stupid, so he didn't call out. Instead he sat perfectly still, holding his breath. He didn't know who was outside and he didn't know the reason for the silence, but Jamal was pretty sure that someone out there had caused it. He also knew that he didn't want to meet them. He had no idea what to do next. But he did know that being alone was a bad idea, that calling out was a worse idea and that waiting to be found was the worst idea yet. So he sat very still, trying not to make a noise, trying to disappear into the shadows and trying to be certain of the right direction to take. He was thirteen, almost a man – not that anyone thought so, he was still treated like a baby – but he knew he was a man. A man who could work out what to do.

As he sat there, hardly breathing, the early morning smoke made him sneeze. Jamal froze; had he given himself away? Slowly, he uncrossed his legs, easing the pins-and-needles from his ankles. If anyone was watching they'd know where he was now. He waited, expecting them to come into his hut.

Nothing happened.

He decided to go outside. His hut had been built on an outcrop of rock where the soil was too thin to grow crops. If he went outside he would be able to look down into the family compound and see what was wrong. Jamal pulled a blanket round him – right over his head so his face was hidden. It was an unimportant act – a habit – but that day it would save his life ...

There was too much smoke. It didn't tickle his nose any more, it was grabbing at his throat, squeezing the air into his stomach in wrenching coughs. He was choking, gasping acid breaths till suddenly his ears were bursting with noise. He fell to the ground, his blanket slipping across his twitching body, hiding his face under the heavy cloth. That was when the pick-up drove past.

'This one's gone, boys, or nearly gone. Don't waste the grenades, we're not finished yet.'

The truck accelerated up the hill taking its masked passengers away from Jamal and on to another target.

Jamal's hut was outside the compound. Not far outside – he could still hear the talking, see the children playing and even smell the bread baking on the stones – but it was not part of the village. He was close, but not too close. Jamal was unlucky, marked by spirits, so he wasn't allowed to enter the compound.

He hadn't been abandoned and chased away from the village like his mother. The Imam had seen to that. He told Jamal's family that Jamal was ill and they had a duty to care for him. But his family didn't want Jamal close and as soon as the Imam left they built a hut as far away as they dared and Jamal had lived there ever since. Food was sent out with small children who scampered up the slope to Jamal's hut, skirting in circles to make sure that no shadow from Jamal, or his hut, fell on them. Water was fetched from the well and delivered in much the same way. Overall, although he was excluded from their society, Jamal's family had ensured that he would at least survive.

Now, as Jamal struggled to stand, he looked towards the compound and realised that his family would no longer be able to help him. The thorn hedge that surrounded the compound was intact. The animals were in the corral and his family were scattered about the compound, just where they ought to be. His aunties near the fires, their children clustered by the huts and his uncles in the centre of the compound, gathered around a bright red canister. As far as Jamal could tell, only two things were wrong: a dirty yellow vapour was streaming from the canister and everyone in the compound was dead.

The smoke that made Jamal cough and choke in his hut was partly from the contents of the canister and partly from Auntie Sheema, who had fallen onto the cooking fire. Jamal hesitated; leaving Auntie to burn seemed wrong, but she would not want Jamal to touch her, even to save her from the fire. He wasn't sure what to do. Jamal's life had been simple: to eat what he was given, keep himself clean, sweep his hut and bury his waste. He had a role in the family: he had to draw bad spirits away from the compound and let them feed on him. Thus he would twitch and shake when the spirits came, rolling in dirt or knocking into the walls, while his aunties and uncles and cousins stayed safe. Jamal hated being visited by spirits, but he accepted his lot. The spirits came to him, punished him and made him ill, but they left his family alone.

Today that hadn't happened. Jamal had slept soundly when the spirits came. Ghosts were escaping from the canister and they had killed his family. He stumbled, his eyes burning, smoke and tears stealing his sight. He called out to the ghosts, begging them to leave the compound and to come to him; but the ghosts didn't listen, they just hovered in the hollows, snaking through the huts, hungrily searching for souls. Jamal knew he couldn't help. Soul-seekers had no use for Jamal, he had no soul. His grandfather had told him that, on the day they buried his mother.

He turned away, picked up the can that held his water and shuffled east following the churned tracks that the spirits had left. The yellow smoke from the canister was drifting in that direction. The ghosts must have had their fill. There was no need for them to stay in the compound. Jamal decided to follow them, find out where they were going, or maybe where they lived. That sounded like a good scheme. There was nothing he could do here; maybe he could find the home of the ghosts. But what then? Would they listen to him? And if they did, could he save his family, or had the ghosts already taken their souls?

He had no plan. For as long as he could remember he hadn't needed to plan. His family had cared for him and he had protected his family. Now he had nothing, so he walked. His red blanket and a copy of the Qur'an, which he couldn't read, were the only familiar things in this unfamiliar world. He needed the blanket to hide from the ghosts. He wasn't quite sure why he needed the Qur'an, but the Imam had told him to keep it by his side, and the Imam was a nice man. He would come to the hut and talk to Jamal, and sometimes he would shave the hair from his head so it didn't itch. Yes, Jamal thought, the Imam is a good man, so I shall take the book with me, to please him.

A Walk Across the Sand

Jamal was hungry. His family had died before breakfast so nothing had been brought up to his hut. He knew that the aunties picked plants to put in the stews, but they had never taken Jamal with them. He didn't...