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Excerpts

Chapter 2

The new school year started on Monday. During Opening Assembly, Isaac, along with fifty-five students and eight teachers, pledged his allegiance to the United States flag, a new one the size of a bed sheet that hung stiff as starch from its bronze eagle stanchion. The one teacher excused from pledging was the new Indonesian language and culture instructor, a Javanese man who spoke perfect BBC English, and from whose amber skin wafted English Leather cologne. The principal, Miss Augusta, asked the teacher to introduce himself. He said that his name was Mr. Suherman, that his father was a banker, that he'd grown up in London, and that he was a Muslim but was honored to be teaching in this Christian school.

After Assembly, Miss Augusta called Isaac into her tidy office and told him that since he'd already skipped two grades, they didn't want him to skip again, even though he could do high-school material. "You'll get ahead of your age group," she said, gazing at him with her left glass eye that saw all. She was the only black-skinned American Isaac knew, and he'd known her for as long as he could remember. Each year more of her crinkly hair turned gray. "So this year, we'll be assigning you special projects."

One of these projects was Esperanto, in one-on-one sessions with Mr. Suherman, as the language was one of the teacher's hobbies. Isaac, born and raised in Wonobo, Java, was already fluently trilingual in English, Indonesian, and Javanese. He didn't see why he should learn a new language, especially an artificial one, no matter what Mr. Suherman said about it being created in part to help bring the world together. But he did help Isaac with several complicated logarithmic problems that the math teacher Mr. Patter had given to Isaac ("The same type of problems occur in banking," Mr. Suherman said). Mr. Suherman was unfailingly courteous and polite, but when raucous Slobert threw spit wads during the first Indonesian culture lesson, one of two regular classes that Isaac attended with the seventh and eighth graders (the other being Bible study), Mr. Suherman's skin and voice seemed to shift as he softly scolded Slobert, revealing steel underneath the softness, the quiet but compelling authoritative aura that only the highest-born Javanese displayed. Slobert reddened but shut up.

The boarders ate lunch at the dorm, and the few day students ate bag lunches at picnic tables under the flame tree, but Isaac ate at home, meals prepared by the Williamses' housekeeper, Ruth, a Muslim widow who'd converted to Christianity. Each day that week as he trudged home for lunch, he detoured into the grove to have a look at the secret gate. He'd placed a small black thread in the crack; it remained in place, telling Isaac that whoever had made the gate was not using it.

On Saturday, after getting permission from his mother and leaving properly through the hospital gates, Isaac went with Ismail to search for treasure in the cane fields. They came up empty-handed, although the excitement of spotting a large python squeezing through a culvert more than made up for that. When they said their good-byes in the late afternoon, Ismail reminded Isaac of the dangdut show at the village square the next day. No way Isaac would be able to get permission for that, but he said, "I'll be there," thinking excitedly that at last he had a real reason to use the secret gate.

That evening Isaac's mother came into his room to tuck him in. "Remember to take out what you need from here tomorrow morning," she said to Isaac as she kissed his forehead. "Reverend Biggs will be here early."

Reverend Biggs normally would have taken the guest bungalow, but it was currently occupied by a missionary from Kalimantan, hugely pregnant with twins refusing to be born. The reverend was going to be sleeping in Isaac's bedroom because it had a big bed. Isaac was moving into his sister's old room with its small four-poster, and he wasn't happy about it.

Reverend Biggs was pink and plump. His thick silver hair rested on his head like a helmet. It didn't move, not even when he got all wound up during his Sunday-morning sermon at the Maranatha Church of Wonobo. The thought of that head on his pillow unnerved Isaac.

The sonorous "amen" of the reverend's final benediction was still rolling toward the gates of heaven as Isaac quickly slipped out to the foyer. He halted in surprise. Out of the sanctuary's other side strode Mr. Suherman. He waved a greeting at Isaac, who blurted, "I thought you were a Muslim."

"I am, but that does not mean I cannot attend church," Mr. Suherman said. He bent close, humor rising in his clear black eyes, and said, "Are you praying with the others for my salvation?"

Actually, Isaac wasn't, even though he knew he should be. This was one of many things that had been bothering him at night as he tried to sleep. "All my prayers get used up for myself," Isaac said, surprised he would admit such a thing.

"Including a prayer for an A in Esperanto?" Mr. Suherman said, laughing. "Remember to study for the lesson tomorrow. Adiau, mia bona studanto."

After Sunday lunch Isaac used the secret gate to sneak out of the compound to meet Ismail for the show in town. He stopped by Pak Heru's fruit stand for a slice of chilled melon. A soft-faced Javanese trying to cultivate a full beard and wearing a black turban and cream-colored robe stood behind the counter.

"Where's Pak Heru?" Isaac asked.

"He's moved to Surabaya. I own this shop now." The man gave Isaac that ultrapolite Javanese smile that said something was seriously wrong. Isaac saw too late the picture of Tuan Guru Haji Abdullah Abubakar hanging on the wall. The man said, "I know who you are. Who you all are. After three days guests and fish begin to stink. You Americans should leave Java. Let Muslim doctors treat the Muslim sick."

Isaac felt embarrassed for the man, that a Javanese would descend to such discourtesy. He left the shop without a word. Something was indeed fishy. Wouldn't Pak Heru have told Isaac he was moving?

Isaac scurried down the avenue. As usual, the legless beggar slumped against the wall of the bus stop's security post, his eyes closed and his mouth moving sporadically as he mumbled in his sleep. His begging cup, out by the sidewalk, had toppled over. Isaac set it upright. He hesitated, thinking of the money in his pocket. But he didn't know how much he would need at the square.

And besides, he thought, with a flare of anger that surprised him, let the Muslims take care of their own poor.

He passed the cemetery and the Pertamina gasoline station and came to the town's chaotic bus terminal, perpetually screened by the black smoke of diesel exhaust fumes.

A trio of heavily made-up women in tight satin gowns stepped down from a grimy bus into Isaac's path. One of them waved her extraordinarily big fingers at him.

"What a cute bulé boy," the second said in a deep male voice, speaking Javanese and clearly not expecting Isaac to understand.

Oh, boy, Isaac thought. Bencongs.

The third bencong, the most petite and prettiest of the three, said, "I wonder if he's going to have blond hair all over when he's older."

"His balls are probably as blue as his eyes," the first bencong said. "And being an infidel, he's probably got an uncircumcised snake between them."

"At least my balls are not black and rotting like yours," Isaac said in fluent gutter Javanese.

The three bencongs stared at him and then burst into helpless laughter, falling into one another's arms. When their mirth subsided, the first one asked, "Where are you going?"

"To see the dangdut singers in the town square."

"Why, we're three of them!" the second bencong said. "Come along with us, we'll make sure you get a good seat." They waved Isaac into their midst and merrily made their way to the town plaza, several blocks away.

The grassy plaza was big enough for two soccer fields. Majestic mahogany trees lined three sides. On the treeless north side stood a large wooden stage shaded by a canvas awning. Twin stacks of loudspeakers backed a fleet of microphones. The drums looked like a gym set. Technicians checked the sound system. The one wearing a T-shirt printed with the stern visage of Tuan Guru Haji Abdullah Abubakar took the test mike and said in Indonesian, "The only good American is a dead American." He withdrew for a second and then put his mouth to the mike again to add, "But don't kill Eminem or Limp Bizkit." His friends on the stage laughed. Isaac, who'd never heard such a sentiment expressed publicly before, slowed his steps. He glanced around the rapidly filling square, an unease pricking him like a mosquito bite. At least fifty policemen in riot gear were filing out of the police station adjacent to the eastern side of the plaza and were assembling underneath the mahogany trees.

Maybe being here wasn't such a good idea.

"Don't worry," the petite bencong said. She -- for she was too pretty for Isaac to think of as a man -- knelt as far as her tight gown would allow and gave him a hug and a delicate kiss on the cheek. "That bastard is only a loudmouth; we'll keep you safe."

She took his hand and led him into the performers' tent, pitched on the windward side of the stage and cooled by the light breeze. Cloth screens sectioned the space into cubicles. Performers perched on stools in front of portable cosmetic stands and mirrors, touching up their makeup. The bencongs found their cubicle and put Isaac on a folding aluminum chair right next to the steps leading up to the stage. One flame-cheeked, kohl-eyed girl in black tights and a red tube top with a pin in her navel caught Isaac's gaze in her mirror and, after an initial flare of surprise at seeing a white boy, blew him a ruby-lipped kiss. His ears felt like they'd burst into flames.

From his seat, he had a good view of Wonobo's Grand Mosque on the other side of the wide avenue. Even though Isaac was a good Christian boy, he was proud that his town had the province's most beautiful mosque, so beautiful that National Geographic magazine had published a full-page photograph of it. The vast marble prayer hall could hold ten thousand worshippers. The central dome soared hundreds of feet into the air, thrusting a pure gold star and crescent insignia up to the clouds. A throng of several hundred men, most in Islamic robes or caftans, stood expectantly on the wide steps to the main entrance, ignoring the happenings on the square.

Ismail soon found him. "Can't miss your big blond head," he said, giving that crooked grin. Over his tattered jeans he wore a bright new T-shirt printed with the picture of the Tuan Guru. Isaac frowned. Ismail laughed, plucking at the sleeve. "There's a stand at the corner selling them. You want one?"

"No," Isaac said.

Ismail drew closer and whispered, "I didn't actually buy it, you know. It was sort of lying discarded on the ground."

The fact that Ismail had shoplifted the T-shirt made Isaac feel better about the fact that he was wearing it. "That's stealing," he said with mock sternness. "You'll get your hands chopped off."

"Ah, that's just for crazy Muslims like the Taliban. Look at this." He tugged on a leather thong around his neck, which was strung through the hole in the Chinese coin they had found at the river. "Maybe we'll find one for you next time."

The band members took their places on the stage and warmed up with drumrolls and flute warbles and electric guitar twangs, now and again melding together for a few bars of the blood-itchy dang dut dang dang dut rhythm. The crowd on the plaza had thickened considerably. The teenage kids pressing toward the stage were held back by a phalanx of private security guards.

The MC, a portly man wearing a red bow tie and green suspenders, rattled through his opening speech. Isaac still couldn't figure out the purpose of this festivity -- it wasn't a special holiday, and no political campaigning was going on. But so what?

The first performer, the girl in the black tights and red tube top, sang to a hot and spicy dang dang dut beat that set the air to quivering. Most of the crowd danced in place. This wasn't the ridiculous hopping and jerking that his sister Rachel loved to watch on MTV, but a slower-paced movement of shuffling feet, rotating buttocks and waist, undulating shoulders and arms, the hands occasionally high over head. The singer's movements were so languid as to be sultry, putting the crowd on slow boil. A lad old enough to sport a tiny mustache ducked underneath the security guards and jumped up on stage. The guards let him be, for this was part of a public dangdut show. The singer fluttered her eyelashes at the lad, and the two danced together as she sang.

The pretty bencong bent down to Isaac's ear. "You know what she's singing about?"

"No, not exactly, what?"

"Losing her virginity. You know anything about that?"

Isaac gave her a grossed-out look. She laughed and clapped him across the shoulders. "You will, you will. Oh, our turn."

The bencongs minced up on stage to roars of laughter. Their lyrics Isaac understood, about a man falling in love with a woman who was a man. The pretty bencong, mike in hand, stepped halfway down the stairs and extended her hand to Isaac, who went rigid in alarm. She wiggled her fingers. Ismail, laughing, pushed Isaac toward her. She clamped her hand around his wrist and dragged him onto the stage. The crowd momentarily hushed upon seeing a blond-haired, blue-eyed bulé boy on stage and then cheered in delighted surprise. Isaac's stage fright eased. Something strange began to happen to him. The infectious beat pouring out of the speakers vibrated along his spine and loosened his muscles. He started to dance, really dance. The bencong's eyes widened, the band members grinned at him, and the crowd doubled its roaring, with cries of "dangdut bulé, dangdut bulé." Several photographers rushed forward to take his picture. When the song ended and Isaac descended from the stage, he was flush with a new, grand feeling. Who cared if he was in no grade, with no classroom friends, when he could have an audience?

"That was great," Ismail said, slapping him across the back. "I didn't know you could dance like that."

"I didn't either," Isaac said breathlessly.

Other performers took the stage. On the sidelines Isaac danced with Ismail. The tree shadows lengthened across the field. The crowd at the mosque across the boulevard had grown as well and began to stream down the white marble steps, a tight nucleus of men at the center. Isaac spotted Imam Ali at the front of this nucleus, and his feet stopped dancing. His inner glow turned into alarm as the robed men strode across the boulevard to the stage. But nobody else was perturbed. Many in the tent craned their heads to see the new arrivals.

The MC got up on stage. He cracked a joke and thanked the performers, giving time for the nucleus of men to gather at the bottom of the stage steps. Imam Ali stood on the first step. The MC grandiloquently said, with rising volume and inflection, as though he were announcing a Las Vegas boxing match, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, good Muslims all, the patron of this afternoon's entertainment, the Nahdlatul Umat Islam!"

Sporadic cheers. Imam Ali took the microphone and stuck his beaky nose to it. He spoke Arabic words of greeting, his beady eyes sweeping the crowd.

Isaac was a good Javanese-American Christian boy who believed in signs and portents upon the earth and in the heavens, and so when a flock of crows wheeled out of the clotted sky and settled in the branches of the mahogany tree nearest the stage, his blood seemed to thicken. As Imam Ali talked the robed men on the steps moved forward to unfurl banners and set up chairs that had been hidden behind the speakers, leaving only three men behind as bodyguards for a stooped, tuft-bearded, turbaned man with bristling white eyebrows and tombstone cheeks.

Tuan Guru Haji Abdullah Abubakar.

The crows cawed raucously.

"Iyallah," Ismail muttered, "it's him!"

The Tuan Guru turned his head toward the tent. Isaac backed up into the shadows, his eardrums pounding with his thudding heartbeat. The Tuan Guru's attention slowly, inexorably settled upon Isaac. Despite the stooped back, there was no sense of infirmity in that body or on that face creased with age. His severe gaze burned. Isaac quickly looked down at the ground.

When he glanced up again, the Tuan Guru was climbing the steps as spry as a goat to Imam Ali's effusive introduction. Throughout the crowd there rose Nahdlatul Umat Islam posters stapled to sticks. Other signs as well, in Indonesian and English: AMERICA THE TERRORIST. ZIONISTS ARE THE CAUSE OF ALL DISASTERS. INDONESIA: MUSLIM STATE, SHARIAH LAW.

Imam Ali continued to speak, warming up the crowd for the Tuan Guru. He orated with wild flaps of his arms and thrusts of his beaky nose. He spoke of unjust American government policies oppressing Muslims around the world, even here in Indonesia. He ratcheted up his voice and thundered, "We are a Muslim nation, yet here in Wonobo, in the heart of Muslim Java, there is an American Christian hospital run by American Christians trying to convert Javanese Muslims!"

Some people in the crowd shouted their angry agreement at this. Isaac's skin prickled. The Tuan Guru, seated upon a plush velvet armchair, once again swung his gaze to Isaac. Isaac wanted out, he wanted to become invisible, he wanted Scotty to beam him up. This is not good. I should not have come here. The Tuan Guru's thin lips moved -- he was saying something to Isaac -- a threat, a curse. Isaac's soul shriveled. The aide next to the Tuan Guru leaned toward the old man, listening to what he was saying, and then stood and whispered in Imam Ali's ear.

Isaac was so light-headed with fright that his thoughts came from another dimension. Oh, boy, here it comes. Imam Ali is going to haul me up there, bring out a sword, and if I don't say the confession of faith and convert to Islam on the spot, he's going to whack my head off.

But instead, Imam Ali broke off what he was saying and scowled down at his feet. He took a breath and changed the subject, moving to a denunciation of the Indonesian authorities for timidity and cowardice and corruption. Now the shouts of angry agreement rose from thousands of throats, solidifying into a roar.

Policemen in riot gear, reinforced by Red Beret special commando soldiers, raided the stage and shut down the speaker system. A detail of Red Berets respectfully escorted a calm Tuan Guru and the other men off the stage and back to the Grand Mosque, an orderly retreat in a general scene that grew increasingly chaotic. The angry crowd surged toward the stage. The cops shot rubber bullets at the front ranks, dropping four young men who writhed in agony on the ground. The crowd fell back. Other Red Beret troops fired their automatic rifles into the air. Tear-gas smoke exploded on the east side of the square, drifting downwind. People screamed and fled. Police whistles shrilled, sirens blared, cop cars squealed to a swinging stop, closing off all the roads. On the plaza's western flank a volley of rocks hurtled toward the policemen on stage.

"A riot, a riot," Ismail shouted. He grabbed Isaac's hand. Isaac, more bewildered than frightened, didn't resist and ran with Ismail behind the stage to the throng of rock throwers, mostly young men with a few of the robed men among them, exhorting and inciting. Ismail plucked a stone from one of the garden beds and was getting ready to chuck it when a troop of helmeted policemen waded into the stone throwers, cursing and flailing with rattan whips and batons. Photographers and video cameramen ducked and wove throughout the commotion, viewfinders to their eyes. A police officer crunched his baton on Ismail's head, and Ismail crumpled to his knees.

A pair of hands grabbed Isaac from behind and yanked him away from the one-sided fighting. Isaac yelped in fear and struggled. A familiar voice said in BBC English, "Calm down, it's me."

Isaac whirled around. Mr. Suherman stood before him, dressed in the same crisply ironed slacks and sport shirt that he often wore when teaching. "Come with me behind the police lines," he said. "You'll be okay."

"But Ismail," Isaac said, "I have to get Ismail."

Mr. Suherman clutched Isaac's wrist and dragged him between two army personnel carriers and around a caged transport van into the recessed sidewalk arches of the town's movie theater. Isaac stood beside a poster of Tom Cruise with a knife slash on his cheek.

"Let's wait here until things quiet down and we can get you home," Mr. Suherman said.

A square-faced police lieutenant whose name tag read NUGROHO stood by the open rear of the van, barking instructions into a walkie-talkie. He was stuffed into a crisp brown khaki uniform. He spotted Isaac on the sidewalk and strode over. "What you bulé boy doing here?" he snapped in English.

Isaac's mind went blank.

"It's okay, he's with me," Mr. Suherman said in Indonesian.

"And who are you?"

"I'm his language teacher."

"You stay right there," the officer ordered.

"That's what we're doing," Mr. Suherman said.

Cops marched a group of handcuffed rioters to the waiting van, most of them the excitable stone throwers. A photographer followed, sidling and crouching for shots. Among the detainees was a dazed Ismail, the back of his head oozing blood. The policemen shoved the men into the van, and one put a hand on Ismail to do the same. Without thinking, Isaac darted out onto the street and tapped the arm of the burly lieutenant, who spun around with a snarl of surprise.

"That's Ismail," Isaac said, pointing. "Ismail Trisno. I know him. He's my friend. Why are you taking him? He didn't do anything. He's just a boy." The Javanese words rushed together.

"Back, back!" the lieutenant shouted, pointing a rigid finger over Isaac's shoulder, his breath garlicky.

Isaac flinched but held his ground. "He's just a boy."

The lieutenant gritted his teeth and said, "He was throwing rocks, the little bastard."

"He didn't know what he was doing."

"We'll let the judges decide that." The lieutenant's knotted face relaxed some. "He'll be all right, my Javanese-speaking white boy. He'll probably be held a few hours to scare him. Now step back, please."

Isaac did so, shouting, "Hey, Ismail!"

Ismail, already seated in the van, turned around and stared through the wire with glazed eyes.

"I'll tell your parents what happened," Isaac yelled. "You'll be okay."

Ismail licked his lips but gave no other reaction. He must have taken a pretty good wallop.

Mr. Suherman said to Isaac in his adult voice, "This is why your State Department advises Americans in Indonesia to stay clear of crowds."

The photographer, young and keen, wearing a safari vest with lots of pockets and a baseball cap on backward, approached them, a notepad held in his hand. "What's your name?" he asked Isaac.

Mr. Suherman stepped forward. "Don't involve him."

"Now, brother -- "

"Get away," Mr. Suherman said harshly. Isaac stared at Mr. Suherman. He'd never heard the teacher be this rude. He'd never seen Mr. Suherman look like this, either, his expression hard and unyielding. Almost scary. The photographer retreated.

In fifteen minutes the town square had cleared, and workers were dismantling the stage. Clumps of people ambled away on the sidewalks, talking and laughing excitedly. Traffic began to flow. Mr. Suherman hailed a number five bemo, which plied the hospital route.

"But I've got to go tell Ismail's parents," Isaac protested. "They don't have a phone."

"I'm taking you straight home," Mr. Suherman said.

"But I promised Ismail."

"I'll tell them." He pushed Isaac into the bemo, following close behind.

When Mr. Suherman and Isaac got out at the hospital entrance, Mr. Suherman paid the driver with coins in his pocket. He knelt on the sidewalk so that he was eye level with Isaac. He sighed and then smiled. "You're like a little raja, aren't you, wandering around Wonobo as though you ruled it." The smile faded. "But let me tell you something. These days it isn't as safe as it has been. You shouldn't be going out on your own anymore. Will you promise me that?"

Isaac scowled.

Mr. Suherman cocked his eyebrows. "If you don't promise me, I'm going in with you to see your parents. You don't want that, do you?"

Isaac shook his head.

"So promise me you won't go out on your own anymore."

"I promise."

"Good lad. In you go, then. Don't forget your Esperanto lesson."

Before the Williams family left for the Sunday-evening service, the phone rang. Isaac, sitting at the kitchen counter reading the Sunday edition of the Jakarta Post, picked up the extension beside him. "Hi, Williams household."

"This is Sheldon Summerton. Is Dr. Graham Williams in?"

Sheldon Summerton was the senior foreign service officer at the American consulate in Surabaya. The previous year, before Rachel left for the States and boarding school, the Williamses had attended the Fourth of July party at a Surabaya mansion, complete with hamburgers and hot dogs on a big green lawn by a big blue swimming pool. Sheldon Summerton had outrageously teased Rachel, attention that made her blush with delighted embarrassment and Mary Williams's face darken with displeasure. A short while later Isaac, carrying a tray of drinks, had tripped and stumbled into the consular officer, soaking him with various sorts of liquor and beer. It had been an accident, honest, but Sheldon Summerton was the sort of man who found accidents caused by babies, dogs, and boys both suspicious and intolerable.

Isaac said in his most unctuous voice, "An urgent skin problem, sir? Necrotizing fasciitis of the genitals?" He did not give Sheldon a chance to reply, but punched the numbers that transferred the call to his parents' bedroom.

A short while later, as the family left the house for church, Graham Williams asked, "Isaac, in your past wanderings around town have you heard anything about a Muslim organization called the -- what was it -- Nadul Umat Islam?"

Isaac pretended to think for a few steps while frantically trying to get his heart to beating again. "No," he said, "not really."

"They held a rally in the town square this afternoon that turned violent."

"Really? Gee."

"Some anti-American rhetoric. Screeching for heads -- "

"Graham," Mary said.

Isaac asked, "But everything's okay now?" His worry wasn't so much for Wonobo's peace as it was for his own. Did his father know he'd been at the square?

"It seems to be." Graham smiled and rubbed Isaac's head. "In fact, it is. Let's forget about it, and enjoy the service."

The Maranatha Church of Wonobo was an A-frame structure of gleaming teak and glowing stained-glass windows, located a quarter mile east of the hospital gates, down a quiet lane lined with old, unproductive rubber trees. On the northern side of the lane driveways led to middle-class brick-and-tile houses. On the lane's other side a curbless verge dropped off into a ten-foot wide concrete irrigation ditch as dry as the Sahara and filling up with garbage. Churchgoers parked underneath the rubber trees and crossed the ditch on a concrete footpath. The church itself was surrounded by a waist-high brick wall meant to keep out chickens and dogs. Prayer and angels protected this house of the Lord from more dangerous creatures.

Isaac, sitting in the back pew, sang the hymns while his mind busily reviewed the crazy events on the town square. He felt again the unsettling stare of the Tuan Guru. He glanced uneasily out the windows into the night surrounding the church, but all was calm and quiet. Not even a crow on the low wall. Was Ismail okay? Was he back with his family? Isaac wasn't sure the police lieutenant could be trusted. Everyone knew that once the police had you, you could disappear. Isaac had made a promise to tell Ismail's parents what had happened, and he intended to keep it. Mr. Suherman had said he'd tell them, but he didn't know where they lived, did he?

Reverend Biggs preached his sermon. Isaac was so drowsy, he couldn't follow. His gaze fixated on the large copper cross hanging over the pulpit, and he had a fantasy of the cross falling and bonking the reverend into silence. Ashamed of such a thought, he switched his attention to the back of Mr. Patter's fine black head, which bobbed up and down with regular and emphatic agreement to the reverend's sermon, a motion that hypnotized Isaac into chin-nodding sleep. A crow flew into his dream. He jerked awake again to the sound of snickering from the opposite pew. Slobert and some of the junior highers were giggling at him. Slobert had a shirttail hanging out and he'd misbuttoned his shirt. How come nobody ever picked on him?

As if on eerie cue, Isaac's mother, sitting next to his father, turned and gave him an odd, psychic sort of look. Isaac raised his eyebrows, as though to say, What? She smiled and returned her attention to Reverend Biggs.

Later that evening he lay sleepless on the mattress on the floor in Rachel's room underneath the screened window, staring at the half-moon, which was a baleful yellow. Why did the sky always hide the sun but let the moon appear?

The door opened. For a crazy tilted moment he thought it was Rachel, teleporting herself from the States to complain about him being in her bedroom, but it was his mother who spoke in the darkness. "Isaac? Isaac, honey?"

He stirred to let her know he was awake.

She felt his forehead. "Are you feeling okay?"

He nodded.

"But something is bothering you."

He couldn't tell her about Ismail being in jail, and he didn't want to tell her about his bad dreams. "No, not really."

"Don't you 'no, not really' me, young man. What is it?"

"Mom, is anything bad going to happen to us?" The words surprised him, coming out in a blurted rush.

There was just enough light for him to see the stillness settling on her face. Then a glint of teeth as her lips widened in a soft laugh. "I'd say that is a real big bother, not a 'no, not really' bother." She knelt beside him and took his hand. "No, honey, nothing bad is going to happen to us. We don't have to worry at all because God will take care of us. We'll be fine. Okay?" She touched his nose with her finger.

Isaac nodded. "Okay." And it was, at least for now, really okay. Nothing bad was going to happen to them, to any one of them, Ismail included.

He slept soundly, without once dreaming of crows.

Copyright © 2004 by Richard Lewis