Chapter 12

Ziad was awoken by the thump of feet on the stairs. He rolled over, and saw Mr. Patil coming downstairs balancing a bag and a mug of tea.

"Good, you're awake." he said.

"Only just." grumbled Ziad. He yawned and rolled off the couch.

"You'd better get a shower done before Parvati and Padma get up- they can spend all day in there."

"Good plan."

Freshly showered and dressed, Ziad returned downstairs and sipped at a mug of tea as the rest of the house awoke around him. He looked at the Daily Prophet on the counter. Pictures of Death Eaters and warnings about the dangers filled the front page. He looked at the muggle newspaper beside the Prophet. Images of devastation ruled the front page.

Bomb Detonates in Manchester City Centre- IRA Suspected

Hundreds Injured

"The world is a violent place this summer." said Mr. Patil ruefully. "Admittedly, the explosion in Manchester is likely to be the work of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, not Irish separatists."

"Indeed," said Ziad in a suitably wise and enigmatic tone.

Eventually, the family and Ziad gathered around a dish-drying rack.

"It's a dish-drying rack." said Ziad.

"It is now. It will grow up to be so much more." said Parvati.

"Uh huh."

Mr. Patil turned to Ziad. "Here's the bit where you come in. Think of where it is you want us to go, and then jab the dish-drying rack with your wand and say portus. Got it?"

"Pretty simple."

Ziad turned to the dish-drying rack. He thought of his sister's house in Jerusalem. "Portus."

There was a faint blue light. Then nothing.

"It's still a dish-drying rack."

"Ah, but it's a dish-drying rack with teleportation abilities!" said Parvati.

"The resale value is incredible."

The Nigerian woman in apartment 814 was sitting peacefully in her kitchen, admiring her handy-work. The broken window was patched up neatly with a piece of cardboard and about three feet of tape.

"We can get a handyman in here to put in new glass over the weekend." she said to her husband.

"Dear..." he said.

"And then we can finally see about getting some nice potted plants."

"I see another one."

"It's looking like we can have a nice- what?"

Another owl smashed through the cardboard, deposited a letter on her head, and flew back out the window.

"What the hell."

"Agreed," said her husband.

Ziad and the Parvati family touched the dish-drying rack with teleportation abilities.

There was a jerk behind his navel, and Ziad was swept off into the nether, and then...

He and the family was deposited in the guest-room of his sister's house.

Ziad stood up and walked to the window. He pushed aside the curtains. The bright Israeli sun blazed through.

"Welcome to the Holy Land," he said.

Ziad opened the door and crept out into the hallway. He then crept downstairs, attempting to make as little noise as possible.

"Excuse me, but what the hell are you doing here?"

Ziad froze. He looked around. Sitting at the kitchen table and drinking coffee sat his sister's husband, Shlomi Bar-Dayan, a tall dark-haired man with glasses.

"Uh, hello, Shlomi."

"How did you get upstairs without me seeing you? Have you been squatting here? You think I don't have enough to deal with, what with Mariam's death?" His voice was slowly increasing both in pitch and in volume.

"Please, Shlomi. Cool it with the Hebrew? You know I barely know a word. Or switch to Arabic or English."

"Sorry, it's the stress. I suppose I should calm down." He said in English. Shlomi slumped back into his chair.
"I suppose she was your sister."

He sat for a while before glancing up and saying, "Your mother was here last week. Asking about Mariam's will, and after all of her and my money."

"I'm not surprised," said Ziad.

"She started out all nice and polite, but after an hour I couldn't stand any more of her crap. Then she started calling me all manner of mean things, from bastard to the tired old infidel and then a few Arabic words I haven't heard yet. I kicked her out, but I'm sure she's around somewhere."

Ziad nodded, "Sounds like her."

At this moment, Parvati came down the stairs, "Is everything all clear- oh, hello."

Shlomi sat there for a bit. He blinked. "How did two people sneak into my house?"

"Um..."

Padma and Mr. and Mrs. Patil came downstairs, lugging the luggage (as one tends to do with luggage, as it is within the luggage's very nature to be lugged). "Oh hello, you must be Ziad's sister's husband."

"..." said Shlomi.

"Give him a minute," said Ziad.

Sixty seconds ticked by.

"WHAT THE HE-"

"Quietus," whispered Mr. Patil with a flick of his wand.

"- ll? Wait... What did you do to me?" Shlomi frantically jumped out of his chair, spilling his coffee all over the table.

"Ah. I forgot about that little snag." said Mr. Patil.

"Indeed." said Ziad.

Ziad sighed and began talking, with a little help from the Patils...

"Magic, huh? Sounds pretty fantastical." muttered Shlomi.

"Oh, really?"

"Come on, appreciate the word-play," said Shlomi.

"That was awful, even by your sad standards. It wasn't even word-play." said Ziad.

"Fine."

They sat there in silence, Shlomi contemplated the complete change in his perceptions of the world.

"So there's really-"

"Yup."

"And-"

"Mhm."

"What about-"

"Uh huh."

"And you can-"

"Sure can."

"You haven't let me say anything yet!"

"Doesn't matter, it can and probably has been done."

"Wow."

"You should have seen my face when I found out!" said Ziad.

"What was your face?"

"I dunno, there wasn't a mirror."

"Of course."

Shlomi finished his fifth cup of coffee that morning. He poured another. "So, now that you're here, I suppose you'll want someplace to stay?"

"Get out of my brain!"

"Stop being a smartass."

"Fine. Yes, you're correct. If you can recommend a hotel, or if you're willing to let us bunk here for a bit?" said Ziad.

Shlomi leaned back and sighed. "I suppose you can stay here, if you want. It's been too empty and quiet since... Since she died."

There wasn't anything much to say after that, especially considering Shlomi's faraway gaze at the wall opposite.

Mr. Patil cleared his throat and said, "We appreciate the offer, Mr. Bar-Dayan, but we'd hate to impose on you, as strangers. I think we'd-" he gestured at the Patils, "-rather check into a hotel."

"Fine, fine," said Shlomi distractedly, "I'll call a taxi."

"Thank you," said Mr. Patil gravely.

"Ziad, you want to stay here?" asked Shlomi.

"Definitely."

"Cool."

After the Patils had left for their hotel, Ziad returned to the kitchen.

"Shlomi, I hate to ask this favor of you, but I need to know if I can contact Robert McCormack, UNIFIL team leader with the Irish Defense Forces."

"And you think I can help you with this because-?"

"I know who you work for."

"Ah." Shlomi sat down, and poured another cup of coffee.

"You need to lay off on the coffee, man. You'll be shooting through the roof soon."

"Free country, mate." said Shlomi.

"Don't change the subject-"

"Hey, it was you who mentioned my overuse of coffee-"

"Anyway, you work for the Shin Bet, or something."

Shlomi put down his coffee, clearly a difficult task. "And you know this- how?"

"Mariam told me. I'm her favorite little brother, remember? She kept nothing from me."

Shlomi nodded, as if Ziad were telling him the sky was blue or giraffes have long necks and spots. "I see."

"Can you help me?"

"I'll try."

Ziad sighed in relief, "Thank you."

Shlomi glanced at his watch and cursed, "I need to get to work. I'll probably be back around five or six PM, and we can do dinner. OK?"

"Sounds good."

"Gotta rush. See you!"

Ziad watched Shlomi run out of the house. Then he went upstairs and fetched his book and performed his favorite activity out in the garden, which had been somewhat neglected lately. He was interrupted by the voice of a girl, probably about his age, talking to him in Hebrew across the garden fence so quickly he couldn't catch any words, as she gestured extensively.

"I'm sorry, but I do not understand Hebrew." said Ziad, repeating the only Hebrew phrase he knew well. The girl looked confused for a second before deflating somewhat and saying, "English?"

"Completely and utterly fluent."

"Damn. I am not too good at English."

"You're already better at English than I am at Hebrew. Were you asking me something?"

The girl frowned, "I am asking who you are. I have not seen you before. How do you know Shlomi?"

"Well, his wife... She... She was my sister."

"Oh. I am sorry for you."

"No need, I've felt sorry for myself enough to last a lifetime. I'm Ziad Jarrah."

"I am Aya Koren. You are Israeli?"

"Lebanese. Born in Beirut, moved to England, and am now back in Israel for the summer."

"Have you been here before?" she asked.

"Once, two years ago." Ziad answered. "I don't remember much, to be honest."

Aya brightened up a bit. "Have you toured the Old City before?"

"Nope."

Aya sighed in pleasure and got a faraway look in her eyes, the kind only someone who appreciates old buildings can have. "It is beautiful." She was one of nature's born architectural historians.

Ziad placed a bookmark in his book (where else would you put it?) and said, "Perhaps you can show me around sometime."

A couple who looked like Aya's parents appeared from the back of their house, they spoke to Aya in machine-gun Hebrew.

Ziad caught the words "the" and "talk" among them. He didn't catch the gist of the conversation. Aya waved goodbye and ran inside. Ziad leaned back and re-opened his book.

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again...

"Damn you Robert Jordan and your Wheel of Time series!" whispered Ziad as he continued reading, "I just know there are at least a dozen more books and I just don't have that kind of time!"

"Who are you talking to?" Aya had reappeared at the garden fence.

"Nobody. Myself."

"Are you nobody?" she said, genuinely confused.

"I won't be engaging in witty repartee with you, will I?"

"What?"

"Damn."

She stood there, looking confused at how she had failed, and confused at what she had failed.

"Don't worry. Your English will hopefully improve enough so that you can banter with the best of them."

"I hope so."

Ziad returned to his book.

"Do you want to tour the old city now?" asked Aya.

Ziad looked at his book... And at Aya's hopeful expression.

Book... Aya...

Aya... Book...

Damn. This was a tough one.

"I suppose my book will be here later." muttered Ziad. "Yeah, lets go."

"Great!" Aya's excitability showed through quite clearly.

They made their way to a bus stop, and climbed aboard. Ziad and Aya sat next to each other.

"How old are you?" asked Ziad.

"Seventeen."

"Alright." said Ziad.

"And you?"

"Sixteen. I turn seventeen next week."

"Ah, you must have a party."

The bus winded its way down the streets of Jerusalem.

A man got on board the now-crowded bus. He wore a heavy jacket and was sweating profusely. Ziad nudged Aya and nodded at the man, who's lips were moving silently.

"I think we should get off at the next stop," he whispered, "That man is incredibly suspicious."

A number of the other passengers clearly thought the same, as a space cleared around the man. Nervous muttering replaced the friendly talking. The bus pulled up to the next stop. As the doors opened, the man pulled his hand out of his pocket.

"Nobody move!" he yelled.

"God damn." muttered Ziad.

The other passengers froze.

"This is for the illegal and inhuman occupation of South Lebanon!"

Ziad's brain froze. Then it restarted due to sheer necessity. He grabbed Aya and forced her to the floor and lay on top of her, shielding her.

"Allahu Akbar!" the man screamed frantically and pressed a button.

Fire and pain.

Author's Note:

Yesterday I failed to upload because I was working from 6 AM to 1 AM without pause. It was exhausting.

Enjoy, and please leave a review if you have the time, I would greatly appreciate it.