ul, however doomed, that moved
             towards something. This must be how Mohammed had willed it, and this is
             The wind pushed red dust pushed against her back, and in through the
             sleeves of her dress. She was certain that she must be entirely red; the
             dust was punishing. It got in every opening, and coated every surface.
             She could feel the crust of dust in the corner of her eyes, but didn't dare
             push it away - it acted as a barrier to more dust. She was becoming part
             of this land, she thought, simply by letting it surround and contain her.
             For all her fatigue and hunger, she was relentless - this walk was her
             fate, and as long as she could walk she would do what the Prophet had
             destined for her. There was nothing for her now by the constant rhythm of
             their feet across the parched ground, day after endless day.
             Weeks ago (or was it months' she was no longer sure) she had been
             playing in her family's house. They were poor, no doubt, but so was
             everyone. Her mother had been dead for years, and her father had passed
             away when Maulava was a child. Her older brother, Jalal, had taken over
             the family's land - he planted seeds, tended them until they grew tall and
             plump, and then harvested them. She would help him harvest, working from
             dawn to dusk to take the precious harvest before the rains came again, or
             insects devoured the crop. They saved wh
             ...