The Celestial Gate by Avital Dicker (red white royal blue txt) 📗

entrance plaza from which they could observe the plaza with relative safety.

The plaza was teeming with activity. A group of masked men blocked the entrance and patrolled the perimeter. Mor counted three vehicles arriving to unload equipment.

Suddenly, from above, came a loud thwacking noise. Looking up, Mor saw two combat helicopters circling overhead. Armed men scattered over the plaza, madly shooting magazine after magazine at the choppers.

“I can’t tell them apart anymore,” Anise whispered, “Who’s shooting who? Everybody looks the same.”

“The helicopters have to be the army’s,” said Yam.

Someone threw a teargas canister and it went off with a loud bang. Men in military uniforms appeared out of the blue and surrounded the plaza. The terrorists drew back and ducked for cover. A missile was fired, hitting one chopper, which started to lose altitude while billowing with smoke.

Suddenly, Mor felt a hand on his shoulder and leaped back while aiming his weapon.

“You always pop out of nowhere,” he scolded the little boy who smiled back at him fearlessly, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes. The boy wore five watches on his arm. Mor was amused to see their young guide’s bulging pants pockets. “You’re quite the little businessman,” he laughed.

“Ask him if he knows another way to the gate,” Yam asked Anise, who repeated the question in Arabic.

The boy nodded yes but didn’t move and pointed instead at Yam’s sunglasses with determination.

Yam hesitated. He’s saved his allowance for six whole months to buy these Ray-Bans.

“Are you kidding me?” Anise yelled, incredulous. Reluctantly, he handed the sunglasses to the boy who cheerfully put them on and then pointed at Mor’s watch.

Mor made a face, but removed it, and watched as the boy shoved it into his already full pocket.

“The watch can’t be worth that much if he’s not putting it on,” Yam laughed.

With a boom that shook the earth, the damaged chopper crashed onto the plaza, throwing hot metal bits and glass shards in every direction. The three friends quickly threw themselves to the ground.

“This is an excellent time to skedaddle,” Mor yelled, trying to make himself heard over the noise. Weirdly, none of these events seemed to bother the little merchant who hadn’t budged, completely indifferent, now holding his hands out for Anise’s earrings.

“Enough already,” Yam turned pugnacious. It made no impression on the kid, who calmly crossed his arms and refused to move.

“Forget it. This is not the time to dicker.” Anise removed the small gold earrings her mother had given her for her birthday. These earrings, which she had coveted so badly a few months ago, now seemed meaningless.

The boy smiled with satisfaction, pushed them deep into his pocket, and motioned for them to follow.

They walked behind the child along the blood-blotched, burned-out streets. All of a sudden, the boy motioned for them to duck, while he himself disappeared. They barely had time to squat behind a parked car before a group of armed men came running around the corner and surrounded a nearby house.

“How did he know they were coming?” whispered Anise. It both astonished and saddened her that this eight-year-old was so good at ducking bullets.

Mor then noticed the curtains of a third-floor apartment being hastily drawn, followed by a spray of bullets from there. As the armed men shot, the child reappeared, again as if out of nowhere, using the developing exchange of fire to sneak out of the alley.

They managed to cover the rest of the way without incident, hearing only echoes of shots from nearby streets.

The boy suddenly stopped at the corner. “From there,” he said, pointing at the entrance to the Muslim cemetery. He’d barely uttered the two words before a fireball appeared in the sky, immediately followed by a series of detonations.

“It’s a missile,” Mor shouted, pushing Yam and Anise into the cemetery and behind one of the tombstones. The missile exploded several hundred yards away, spreading shrapnel and rocks in every direction. Yam looked for the child, but he was gone again.

“That kid always appears out of thin air and disappears back into it,” Yam mused. He added, “Anyway, it’s too dangerous to keep going. We’re too exposed.”

Yam was right. In the cemetery, they were sort of protected. Mor and Anise agreed the smart move was to wait until dark and then make for the gate.

But Yam’s stomach rebelled. They hadn’t eaten since yesterday so, despite the nearby battles, he decided to check out the surrounding streets. He could get lucky and find an abandoned restaurant or grocery store. Mor and Anise tried to convince him to skip the adventure, but Yam insisted and promised he’d be careful.

Mor and Anise found a hidden spot under a cemetery tree and lay down on the grass. Anise closed her eyes, giving herself up to the rays of the sun. Where is the God who allows babies to be shot to death, she wondered?

Mor’s hand traced shapes across her back. They’d played this game so many times: he’d draw letters on her back with a finger and she’d try to put them together into a word.

“You’re tickling me,” she giggled, grateful for the diversion, and tried to concentrate on the letters he was tracing.

“Anise loves…”

“Enough!” Guessing the end of the sentence, she cut him off and turned to him, her hands in fists.

Mor, laughing, tried to grab her hands. For a second, they were kids again, rolling on the grass and giggling.

Mor eventually managed to pin her arms to the ground, his face just inches from hers. Suddenly, he turned serious. Anise stared into his eyes. His face closed the distance with hers, yet she didn’t move.

“Are you nuts?!” Both suddenly heard Yam’s loud voice above them and jumped up, their cheeks coloring.

Anise felt ill at ease. She pulled down her top, which had bunched around her waist, pointedly not meeting Yam’s eye. And she was annoyed at feeling ill at ease. I don’t owe anything to either one, she thought.

Yam tried to conceal the storm of emotions stirred up by seeing