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    Broken Moon
    Broken Moon
    Broken Moon
    Ebook134 pages3 hours

    Broken Moon

    By Kim Antieau

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    I WILL NEVER HAVE A HUSBAND, BUT I HAVE THE BEST BROTHER IN THE WORLD. YOUR BREATH ON MY CHEEK -- ON MY SCAR -- FELT LIKE THE BREATH OF ALLAH.

    Nadira is spoiled goods. Scars from a beating she received for a crime that her older brother allegedly committed tell the world that she is worth less than nothing -- except to her little brother, Umar, who sees beauty in her scars and value in her.

    But Umar is gone -- perhaps kidnapped or maybe sold. All Nadira knows is that Umar has been taken into the desert to ride camels for rich sheiks. He could be lost to her forever.

    For Umar, Nadira will risk everything. So she disguises herself as a boy and searches out the men who took him. They are not hard to find, and soon she, too, is headed to the desert to be a camel jockey.

    Life in the desert is more brutal than Nadira imagined. All she has to protect her and the boys she meets are a bit of chai tea, some stories, and the hope that she has enough of both to keep going until she finds Umar.

    BROKEN MOON IS A SPELLBINDING, LYRICAL TALE THAT WILL CAPTURE READERS, HEARTS AND SOULS.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMargaret K. McElderry Books
    Release dateJun 17, 2008
    ISBN9781439104101
    Broken Moon
    Author

    Kim Antieau

    Kim Antieau is the author of Mercy, Unbound. She lives with her husband in the Pacific Northwest.

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    Reviews for Broken Moon

    4.5/5

    13 ratings2 reviews

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    • 4/5
      The story had a historical fiction feel, but yet there were computers and televisions mentioned. I'll admit that I am a sucker for the poor, strong female overcoming huge obstacles type of book.Set in Pakistan it involves customs that are foreign to us. The story started out strong, but I felt the ending was too "pat". This was an enjoyable read, but not a great one. Unfortunately, I will probably not be able to get any students to read this book...they don't seem to be interested in anything "multi-cultural".
    • 5/5
      A beautiful story about a young girl who has to dress as a boy to find her brother when he was taken away. This is such a short read, but with powerful words packed into every part of it. The amount of courage it would take to do that is tremendous, and I admire the main character for that!

    Book preview

    Broken Moon - Kim Antieau

    PART ONE

    Remember Shahrazad

    May 30

    DEAR LITTLE BROTHER, YOU WHISPERED when you gave me this pale green book with the blank pages. You didn’t want Uncle Rubel and our mother to hear us talking. I don’t know why. Ami wouldn’t care. But Uncle Rubel? Is he mean to you when I am away? At least he gives us a place to live. I don’t want to speak ill of any of our relations, of course, but I am not certain Baba liked him either. I miss our father so much. Will we ever get used to him being gone, Umar?

    I wish you remembered when we lived in the village, before the bad thing happened and we had to move to Karachi. Baba owned a store and was well respected. We had a house. It was small, but I had my own room. At this time of year, you could smell the wildflowers that grew in a small patch near the spring, especially these blue flowers shaped like bells. Ami called them bluebells, and Baba would laugh and ask if she could hear them ringing. Ami had several saris and dupattas then—made from the softest silks, with the most becoming colors. She was much admired, our mother. But then our brother Rahman was accused, and I got hurt. That is not the story you want to hear tonight, though, is it? You wanted me to write stories about my life in Begum Naseem’s house (where I work as a servant) and then read them to you when I visit on my day off.

    I will try to do that, little brother. You are only six years old. I know you will not like hearing this, but you are too young for some things. Like the story of how I got hurt—even though you are the only person I have ever let touch the scar on my face. You said, It looks like the new moon we watch for at the end of Ramadan. You grinned. That’s the time when we get to feast and celebrate. Just like I celebrate every time you come home! And you asked if it hurt. I told you no, but it does hurt. Every time I look in the mirror—which is not often—and I move my dupatta away from my cheek, my heart hurts to see what they did to me.

    Why am I talking about this? It must be Uncle Rubel. I do not want to be unkind, Umar, but he reminds me of the men from the village. And that makes me shudder. I don’t like him talking to Ami about money. I give her all my pay, little as it is. It must be enough to pay for you both, plus our brothers send money. Or they used to. I am not certain now what they do.

    Anyway, you gave me the little green book and showed me your little red book. I wonder how long it was before he died that Baba packed the books in the bottom of that box where you found them today. Baba had written Nadira on the first blank page of my book and Umar on the first blank page of your book. Remember Shahrazad, he wrote to me in the green book. Learn wisely, he wrote to you in the red book. Do you think he knew he was going to die? It was very hard for him to lose everything. I was only thirteen when we left the village. He tried for four years to make our life better here. I think it hurt him that our brothers did not come home to help. Maybe they never realized how bad things had gotten.

    I don’t think I will read you everything I write here. I am writing too many sad things, even though I don’t feel sad. Fatima, another servant here, is snoring next to me. I should be sleeping, but I am remembering telling you stories tonight before I left, like Baba used to tell me when I was your age. He taught me to read and write, too. I hope Ami sends you to school and doesn’t listen to Uncle Rubel. You should not be working at your age! Whatever happens, I will make certain you learn to read and write. Fatima found me a pencil to use to write in this little green book. I can hide it in the book and put both in my pocket.

    Tonight I told you the story of Shahrazad, the very wise and beautiful woman who saved herself and all the young women of the kingdom. The King was mad with grief because his first wife betrayed him. He would not risk another betrayal, so he took a new wife each night and had the new wife killed each morning. One day, Shahrazad asked her father to put her name forward as the next bride. Her father tried to talk her out of this dangerous course. She told him that she had learned all her lessons well. Trust me, she told her father. Her father eventually did as she asked. The King and Shahrazad married.

    In the morning, she asked her husband for one last favor. Could she tell her sister a story? He agreed. And she told the story, and it was night again. So he spared her life that night. And she told another story and another. Each night for one thousand and one nights, Shahrazad told a story that saved her life, until the King finally decided she had told enough stories and he allowed her to live. That’s how we got Alf Layla wa-Layla, A Thousand Nights and One Night. Even though Baba says Shahrazad was not a historical person, I believe someone like her existed. Maybe many someones like her.

    When Baba first told me this tale, I said, A King can kill people?

    Baba said, A King can do anything. But he has someone he must answer to—even if it is his own conscience. Everyone has someone like the King in their lives. Shahrazad was clever. She didn’t wait for her fate. She went to the King and said, ‘Let me tell you a story.’ And she saved her own life. No sense crying and wailing over how terrible your life is. Someone always has it worse. Someone always has it better.

    Before you went to sleep tonight, Umar, you said, I want to see the moon.

    But we have no window, I said.

    You gently pulled my scarf away until you could see my scar. I leaned down, and you kissed it. I will never have a husband, and I will probably always be a servant in a household like this one, but I have the best brother in the world. Your breath on my cheek—on my scar—felt like the breath of Allah.

    You said, Promise you will never leave me.

    I promise, I said. Promise you will never leave me.

    Never, you said.

    Good night, sweet brother. Dream of the two of us flying on a magic carpet, will you? We are flying far far from here.

    Your loving sister, Nadira

    May 31

    SOMEDAY I WILL BRING YOU to this place where I work, Umar. It is so big, and Begum Naseem and her husband, Tariq Saleem, and their children don’t seem to notice how big it is. At first I sometimes got lost, but after three years I know it well. Do you remember when I came here to work? It was two years before Baba died. We needed the income, and our parents became certain then of what I already knew: They would not find a husband for me.

    Umar, you would hardly believe all that the three children here are blessed with. They have their own rooms, each with a bathroom, television set, and telephone. The boy has a computer. I’m not sure exactly what it does, but I often hear his mother complain, Duri spends too much time on that computer. What does he see on that screen? I have stood looking at the screen, which is like a television, and I have seen nothing. When Duri just touches it, the screen brightens. I have tried that when he is not at home, but it remains dark.

    They are very proud of their son, naturally, and his two sisters spoil him. The eldest, Noor, is getting married soon. We are already preparing for the wedding feasts. Today I helped Cook. They call her Cook, as though she has no name, but when I asked her what her name was, she frowned and said, Cook. So I call her that too. She has lived with this family a long while.

    Did Baba ever tell you his father worked here before he came to live with us? Our grandfather was Begum Naseem’s gardener. She says he was very good.

    He talked to the plants and the earth, Begum Naseem told me. Sometimes he even argued with them. She laughed. And the gardens were always beautiful. He lived in that tiny house in back.

    The one where all the garden tools are now? I asked.

    Yes, but he had it fixed up nicely. He’d have tea out there. Plus his bed and some books. Your grandmother had died many years before. Then he retired and went to live with you. Do you remember him?

    Yes, I told her. He lived only a few years after he moved in with us. He was always trying to teach me and my mother the names of flowers. We weren’t very good at remembering them. My father used to say I had a way with animals just like my grandfather had a way with plants.

    I did not tell her that

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