There are many different places in the world we inhabit, and just as

many differences between these worlds within worlds. There are

worlds past, which cry out from yellowed scrolls of ancient writing.
There is the gaping gulf between the third world and the first. And
there is the canyon of childhood, out of which we one day climb,
uncertainly, to the starkly sensible adult world. At this time in this
world, as in most times occupied by human beings, there was a world
at war. This world was also inhabited by children—children just like
Caitlin, Michael and Simon—but children whose world rocked on a
shaky axis. It was in this place in this world, under a Baghdad sky
groaning with gunfire, that a boy called Emir tried to lose himself in in
the roaring of the crowd at a football match where he was the star
player.
Emir drew back his leg and attempted to kick the ball as hard as he
could, exerting so much effort that his left leg slipped out from under
him to leave him sprawled on the ground. His missed kick left a toe-
shaped scar on the threadbare field. The ball, tatty and flat as it was,
came to a stop metres before the makeshift goal of two fruit crates.
Emir had never been very good at football. I might be better if we had a
real pitch and a proper ball, he thought, then frowned at his
ungrateful thoughts. There were better things to wish for in Iraq.
‘Stupid ball is flat’, Emir grumbled, as his friends kicked it between
themselves, laughing at his uncoordination. Emir averted his eyes and
kicked grumpily at the dust mark, only to stub his toe on a stone
caked into the dirt nearby. At least he thought it was a stone, until a
gleam of light caught his eye. Bending down, he brushed at the dust
with grubby fingers. A circular shape was imbedded in the dirt. It
shone dully, revealing itself to be a piece of metal. Emir withdrew his
fingers carefully. Probably just a piece of harmless scrap from one of
bombs, he thought. Emir had seen children who had lost limbs by
playing with unexploded munitions amid the battle-scarred streets.
Still, this object was flat and circular, rather than the oblong shape of
an unexploded grenade. Emir bent towards it again and prised up the
edges. It came up easily enough. He spat on it and rubbed it on the
hem of his trousers.
Now that it was clean, he could see it was jewellery of some kind,
made of pewter or unpolished silver. At the top of the circle was a
small hole where a chain could turn it into a pendant. Emir stared at
it curiously. Inside the outer circle another circle was engraved, and
inside the second circle was a five-pointed star. Around the edges of
the star, strange letters were written in capitals. There was one on
each point, except the third point which had two to make up the word
UGIEIA. Emir traced the letters in the dust. They looked like English
letters. Probably just a pendant belonging to one of the liberating
soldiers. Emir felt strangely deflated.
He tried to sound out the English letters taught to him by his aunt,
who worked in administration at the UN compound. UGIEIA. Funny
name for an American, he thought. He spat on the American’s pendant
again. It gave him a slight satisfaction.
 ‘Is it shrapnel?’ his friend asked, scowling.
‘No, it’s a pendant. English or American.’
His friend bent down, squatting next to Emir for a closer look.
‘It looks old, not American. Turn it over.’
On the back, the metallic circle was engraved with small, wedged
shapes. Emir and his friend stared at it admiringly. It was
cuneiform—early Sumerian writing—they knew that much from
history lessons. Their teachers never let them forget that they had
been born in the cradle of civilisation.
Whatever this was, it was ancient, he thought, smiling. It was
probably even worth something.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Right here, on the pitch.’
‘Perhaps there’s more?’
The game of football was finished in favour of the newer game of
discovery. Grabbing a stick, Emir began digging around the imprint in
the dust. It was only a matter of minutes before he made out
something else below.
‘There is more!’ he cried, scooping the dust away from the latest
unearthed oddity. As he poked his stick around it, he was
disappointed to hear shattering glass. Closing his eyes, Emir blew to
clear away the dust. Beneath it was a glass box containing two half
sections of a pot encircling a core-like copper coil. Emir clutched the
pendant firmly in one hand and picked up the two halves in the other.
Beneath the shards of pot was a yellowed scrap of paper. Emir just
had time to read ‘Mesopotamian Ritual Objects. Possibly the first
battery. Baghdad Museum’, before he passed out cold.

Please follow my serialised novel as Weblit on my blog at

http://karincox.wordpress.com Also, I’d love it if you signed up to follow me on
Twitter @Authorandeditor