REBEL OF FIRE AND FLIGHT

REBEL OF
FIRE AND FLIGHT

ANEESA MARUFU

SC H O LA ST I C I N C . / N EW YO R K
  Copyright © 2022 Aneesa Marufu

All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.,

Publishers since 1920. scholastic, chicken h
­ ouse, and associated log­os
are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

First published in the United Kingdom in 2022 as The Balloon Thief

by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are ­
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to a­ ctual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­P ublication Data available

ISBN 978-1-338-80231-3
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 23 24 25 26 27
Printed in Italy 183

First edition, January 2023

Book design by Keirsten Geise
 To Raheem, for teaching me how to fly
 1

KHADIJA

T he white men looked like birds. Or at least, Khadija thought they

did. From her bedroom win­dow they w
­ ere tiny figures, no bigger
than the length of her fin­ger. She studied their bent knees, arms a blur
like wings caught mid-­flight as their desperate motions brought the
deflated silk in their hands to life. Any faster, and ­she’d think they
­were the ones about to leave the ground instead of the hot-­air balloon.
She was too far away to hear the racist slurs leaving the merchants’
lips as they instructed the men to do their bidding, but she could cer-
tainly imagine what was being said as their fair skin reddened beneath
the hot sun while the silk balloon swelled. And yet Khadija c­ ouldn’t
bring herself to pity them. She envied them. For all their suffering and
mistreatment, they still had a better view of the hot-­air balloon than
she did.
The tip of her reed pen bled black ink across the paper as she
sketched the bright globe of the balloon and crisscrossed it with sharp
lines, marking each individual panel. ­She’d seen ­women in the bazaar
sewing the squares of material by hand and stitching the more lavish
ones together with freshwater pearls along the seams so that, once air-
borne, the balloon became a living, flying piece of art. She de­cided

1
against including the white men in her drawing, or the wealthy mer-
chants hovering close by, ready to leap forward at any moment should
their balloons chance an escape with their livelihoods still aboard.
Balloons ­were unpredictable creatures, ­after all, whisking men away
on the next breeze with almost perfect obedience before becoming
greedy and engorged, stuffing themselves with hot air ­until they burst
spectacularly without warning. ­There ­were the lazy ones that slumped
across the ground like empty carcasses refusing to come alive, and the
furious ones with f lames so hungry they licked the fabric and set
the ­whole balloon ablaze. No m
­ atter how hard men tried, balloons
­were creatures they could never truly tame. That’s why she loved them.
A gentle tap at her door had Khadija swiftly folding her paper in
half, causing the wet ink to stick it together. She stuffed it beneath her
pillow and wiped her ink-­stained fingertips on her shalwar kameez just
as the door swung open.
“Yes, Abba.” Khadija stood to attention as her ­father shuffled in.
His glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose, exposing the per-
manent dents t­ hey’d caused from years of wear. Too much time spent
poring over paperwork and numbers had reduced his eyesight to that of
a fruit bat’s so that Abba had to squint even when he was but a few feet
from her. His frequent frowning only emphasized his perpetual air of
disappointment.
“Ah, ­t here you are, beti!” Abba exclaimed. As if ­she’d be anywhere
­else but in her bedroom. His knees creaked as he perched on her bed,
brow creasing at the open book Khadija had in her haste forgotten to
hide. Its spine was bent back to reveal a picture of a magnificent silver
balloon made of a material as sheer and delicate as lace.
She cursed inwardly.

2
 “Are you not too old for story­books?” Abba picked up the book by its
corner as if it was a wet dishcloth.
“It’s not stories, Abba, it’s history.” Khadija quickly freed the book
from his fin­gers. “Stories ­aren’t real. This actually happened.”
Abba scoffed. “Pah! You ­really believe a common jinn kidnapped
a princess in a hot-­air balloon?”
Khadija winced. The book told the tale of Princess Malika, who,
long ago, mysteriously vanished the night before her wedding a­ fter her
fearless nature had caught the eye of the jinniya Queen Mardzma—­the
queen of female warriors—or so the story said. The queen sent one of
her jinn in a hot-­air balloon, disguised as a handsome prince, to seduce
the princess. He stole her up into the skies to admire the world below
before delivering her to Queen Mardzma’s kingdom in the jinn realm,
where she was ruthlessly trained to become one of their most heroic
fighters. The book contained accounts of a number of her adventures,
but the tale of her disappearance had always been Khadija’s favorite, if
only for the illustration of the silver balloon.
Unlike Khadija, Abba ­didn’t care much for lit­er­a­ture depicting
­women ­doing t­hings they w
­ ere not supposed to do. She w
­ asn’t sure
which part of the story he found most unbelievable: a princess kid-
napped by a jinn in a hot-­air balloon, or an army of female warriors.
Abba cleared his throat. “Anyway, the real reason I’m h
­ ere”—he
slapped his thighs—­“ is that I have very good news for you! News you’ll
be pleased to hear.”
Khadija smiled meekly. Abba and she often had very differing views
about what they considered good news. Certainly, it c­ ouldn’t be news as
good as fighting alongside a warrior queen.
Still, she had to ask. “What is it, Abba?”

3
 Abba pushed his glasses back to their usual position so that his eyes
looked twice their size. “I have fi­nally found the perfect match for my
­daughter!”
This again. It was always this. Always another match, another
potential suitor, another failed betrothal that ended in Abba’s sideburns
becoming grayer by the day and Khadija spending more and more time
in her bedroom, where she could almost be forgotten about, and Abba
could pretend the weight of marrying off his youn­gest d
­ aughter ­didn’t
still rest on his shoulders.
“He is a fine young man.” Abba stroked his beard. “A shoemaker, in
fact. Think, Khadija, of all the pretty shoes he could make for you. The
neighbors ­w ill certainly be jealous!”
Shoes. R
­ eally! Did he not know her at all?
“I d
­ on’t need shoes, Abba. I have enough already.” And that was
the truth. Their eyes wandered to her dresser and the neat row of
shoes beside it—­pretty velvet slippers and strappy sandals studded with
rhinestones.
None of them hers, of course. None of them o­ nes she’d ever worn.
It’s not that they ­didn’t fit her. But they ­were her ­mother’s shoes, col-
lecting dust in the corner of her bedroom. The last time Ammi’s shoes
had ever been worn felt like another life.
Abba’s face fell. His shoulders dropped. What­ever he’d used to
inflate himself had just been punctured. “I know, beti,” he said, “but
I think this could be very good for you. You c­ an’t spend the rest of your
life in your bedroom reading story­books.”
That stung. He made it sound so trivial. L
­ ittle did he know t­here
was a pile of sketches u
­ nder her bed, each one meticulously drawn from
hours spent watching balloons take off and land ­every day. Khadija

4
studied balloons the way one would study birds or wild­flowers, and
reckoned she knew the anatomy of a balloon far better than the mer-
chants outside.
Girls w
­ eren’t allowed to fly, but that did nothing to quell her
obsession. A
­ fter all, Princess Malika had flown in a hot-­a ir balloon.
All she had to do was get kidnapped by a jinn.
“Most girls your age are already married.” Abba shook his head.
“Leave it any longer and all the good men w
­ ill be gone, and you’ll
be left with someone”—he threw his arms up, as if plucking the right
words from the air—­“plain. Boring.” He fixed his dark eyes on her.
­She’d never realized shoes w
­ ere that in­ter­est­ing to Abba. Khadija
dropped her gaze, fiddling with a loose thread on her bedspread ­until
one of the embroidered beads came away. It bounced across the floor.
No. They both knew ­there was nothing ­grand or exciting about a shoe-
maker. Her older s­ister, Talia, had gotten lucky with her husband. A
cloth merchant. Now she was busy traversing Ghadaea in a hot-­air bal-
loon while he traded in lavish organza and fine crushed silks. But Talia
had always had more appetite for marriage. She could stomach it better
than Khadija.
“I’m not that old, Abba.”
“But you ­w ill be. Soon,” Abba interrupted. “­You’re sixteen now.
Talia was already engaged at your age, and look how happy she is.”
Khadija rolled her eyes. “How do you know she’s even happy, Abba?
We’ve not seen nor heard from her in months.”
Abba’s jaw twitched. A few years ago he ­would’ve scolded her for
such outspokenness. Now he only sighed, like her candor was a splin-
ter lodged so deeply beneath his skin he had given up trying to rid
himself of it.

5
 He ­rose from her bed, eyes resting on her dresser covered in stacks
of glittery bangles meant for girls with far thinner wrists than her.
Khadija was reduced to lathering up to her elbows with soap before forc-
ing them on, and that was when she could be both­ered to wear them.
Then ­there ­were the pretty peacock hairpins and jeweled brooches, still
nestled unopened in their plush boxes, to decorate her hijab. All gifts
he’d often encourage her to wear, all to no avail.
Abba exhaled. “It’s almost like you ­
don’t want to get married,
Khadija.”
Fi­nally he’d gotten it! And it only took how many years? Khadija
crossed her ankles, clasped her palms in her lap, and met Abba’s gaze.
She felt like a ­little girl with him towering above her. No ­matter how
old she got, Abba always treated her like she was so l­ittle, his youn­gest
child—­though she h
­ adn’t always been that.
She bit her lip. “I ­don’t, Abba,” she whispered. “I ­really ­don’t.”
He winced at her honesty. “I ­don’t know what the ­matter is with you
sometimes!” He threw his head back as if searching the ceiling for
answers. “I bet it’s all this time you spend alone. ­Can’t be good for you.”
Abba hummed as if he’d solved the impossible equation that was his
­daughter refusing to marry. “Have you been sleeping? Any bad dreams?
Headaches?”
She knew where this was ­going.
“You know, the neighbor’s ­daughter was like you. ­Didn’t want to
marry ­either, and Mr.  Rashid ­didn’t know what to do about her. It
started with bad dreams and then this constant pounding headache.”
Abba smacked his forehead to emphasize the pounding. “Mr. Rashid
took her straight to the physician, and do you know what he said?”
He ­didn’t wait for her response. “Jinn possession!” he proclaimed.

6
“Apparently, it can easily happen to t­ hose with weak minds.” He tutted
and traced his thumb over the ta’wiz around his neck—an amulet con-
sisting of a cloth pouch containing a prayer to offer protection against
evil. “Luckily they caught it just in time,” Abba continued in his light-
hearted manner, as if he h
­ adn’t just brazenly insulted her. “The jinn
was exorcised, trapped in a copper-­and-­brass-­infused glass ­bottle, and
now the girl is happily married. I believe Mr. Rashid is about to become
a grand­father as well.”
If it w
­ ere pos­si­ble for Khadija to roll her eyes any harder, t­ hey’d pop
out of her skull and land at her feet. Jinn w
­ ere shape-­shifting spirits
residing in Al-­Ghaib, a realm hidden to the mortal eye and ruled by
vari­ous jinn kings and jinniya queens. Most jinn ­were indifferent to the
affairs of mortals. It was unlikely Mr.  Rashid’s d
­ aughter had drawn
their interest when, like Khadija, she rarely left her bedroom. What
jinn would wish to possess her?
Hunger was the main reason jinn interacted with h
­ umans at all. Jinn
had a peculiar appetite for corpses, both animal and h
­ uman. Bodies
­were never kept long enough to attract them and w
­ ere cremated with
speed. Death was said to pierce the veil between the two worlds, allow-
ing jinn to slip freely into the mortal realm—­another reason bodies w
­ ere
quickly disposed of.
“Maybe I should call an exorcist.” Abba tapped his chin.
Exorcists ­were common, though most w
­ ere frauds, only serving to
feed superstition by preying on the most fearful.
“I d
­ on’t need an exorcist. I’m fine.” Though she wished she could say
the same for Abba. He’d become increasingly distant over the years,
locking himself in his office, where he’d be absorbed with paperwork
for most of the day. He thought her ignorant, but Khadija was well

7
aware of the mounting pile of bills and debt letters in his desk drawer.
Most likely this was the real reason he wished to marry her off soon,
while he could still afford the wedding.
She had to stop this, convince him, before he rushed into something
and ruined her life forever. “Just give me more time.”
“­You’ve had enough time.” His eyes fell to the book on her bed. “All
those silly stories ­
­ you’ve been reading! Marriage ­
isn’t a fairy tale,
Khadija. I wish it was, but it’s not. Marriage is a ­matter of con­ve­nience,
not a whim of the heart.”
Khadija ­rose and circled the bed, as if by putting a piece of furniture
between them she could escape this conversation. “Maybe if you let me
meet ­people . . .” She was careful to say ­people and not boys. “Then I
could find a husband for myself.”
Abba scoffed as if ­she’d just asked for a hot-­air balloon as a wedding
gift. “A girl finding her own husband? What would the neighbors think
of such scandal!” He pursed his lips. “I think it’s time you threw
that story­book away. Start living in the real world.” His words w
­ ere as
brittle as glass. It w
­ asn’t like she was expecting a handsome prince to
whisk her away in a balloon. Khadija hugged the book to her chest,
willing the pages to swallow her. For a moment, Abba appeared ready
to snatch it from her. But he d
­ idn’t.
The book was like Ammi’s shoes, from another life. It had belonged
to her ­brother. Hassan had been a natu­ral storyteller, even at his young age.
He could read aloud for hours without making a single m
­ istake. Abba had
always said he was destined to become a writer or a wazir for the Nawab
of Intalyabad if he could afford the airfare to the city. If Khadija thought
hard enough, she could still hear her b
­ rother’s voice reciting the stories,
magic seeping across the pages and rolling off the tip of his tongue.

8
 Abba’s stern voice snapped her back. “I’ve been too easy on you, and
that’s not right. I’m your f­ ather. I know what’s best.”
Khadija’s stomach twisted into a knot. S
­ he’d always managed to talk
her way out of Abba’s betrothals, squeezing a few extra months from
him. This seemed dif­fer­ent. Her time was fi­nally up.
“Put on something nice and come downstairs. He’s waiting in the
kitchen.” With that, Abba shut the door.

9
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