...to that cloud that comes streaming from the south...

A story by Filib Muslim

Her night stretched long and she did not sleep; there had come over her what comes over one sunk in a dream: if she closed her eyelids for a moment, a restless phantom appeared to her with phantoms in its train; if she covered her ears an instant, a turbulent echo came to her with echoes following after; and if she folded those echoes away for a while within her, and those phantoms too, she felt as though a single face were stirring about her in revolt, as though a single voice were whispering about her in tumult, until it was as if she saw nothing but the face of Fawwaz gazing at her, and heard nothing but the voice of Fawwaz calling to her — whether she sat crouched by the hut, or went along the road, or stood upon the hill:

— Nahla!... Why should I not live with you, Nahla, and why should you not live with me?!...

And were it not for you!... Do not be afraid!... And let not those ruffians frighten you!... For soon I shall return!... And morning, Nahla, is not far off!!!...

* *

And Nahla felt with her hand for that face, opening her mouth to answer that voice; but she flung herself to look out from the little window of the hut, and darkness had departed, and morning had begun to flood over the far-flung reach of the horizon!...

And she knew nothing till she had thrown off the thin cover, slipped on her two worn slippers, wrapped herself in her old torn shawl, and darted swiftly out through the cracked door, leaving her mother turning over on the mat and her father snoring away in his sleep!...

And her mother's turning, and her father's snoring, and all that was in the hut... none of this was absent from her mind as she looked at the town lying asleep on the shore of the bay, or at these orchards spread out over the plain, or at those bright hills, where trees stood on their slopes and leaned, and rocks reclined on their summits and slept; but she felt as though something of this wind that blew in her face, and of this mist that engulfed her a while and then was gone, and of those clouds that raced here and then banked there... as though something of all these had touched her eyes gently, and caressed her ears softly, then carried her on soft palms and set her down in the hut, where she had spent the happiest days of her life, and the most wretched!...

And as a flash passes across the expanse of the sky, those days passed through her mind all at once; then they began to come back, now slowing, laboring in their slowness, now hastening, laboring in their haste, until, as she began to weary a little, she cast herself back to that evening when she reached this bend of the slope, walking ahead of her helpless mother and father — all of them carrying the

remnants of their belongings, and having left behind them three young men watering with their spilled blood the soil of their plundered village... And when they came to a few olive trees standing apart on the slope hedged round with rocks, her mother threw the load from her back and sank to the ground, panting, worn out:

— This far the Lord has helped me!...

And her father added, sighing and casting down his load:

— And this far my two feet have helped me!...

As for her, she said, setting down what was on her back and under her arm, then pushing back the hair that had tumbled over her face, and wiping with the edge of her sleeve the sweat streaming on her brow:

— This far... this far and no farther... and tomorrow we shall decide our fate!...

And when the morrow came, she woke to a rustling near her; she turned, and there was her father: he had gathered some stones and was setting them in a row beside a rock that stood between two olive trunks... while her mother appeared from behind the trees, carrying some dry sticks and branches; and she could do nothing but rise, calling out to them:

— The morning is Yours, O God!... What are you two doing?!...

The father answered, saying:

— Here we passed our night... and here we shall pass our nights!...

Then the mother added:

— We are building ourselves a hut — don't you see?!... Come, help us!...

And no sooner had her mother spoken the last word than she rolled up her sleeves and set to work at what the two of them were working at; and behold, stone clung to stone, and course rose upon course, and the stones and the courses joined the standing rock to the trunk of this olive tree and the trunk of that, until, when they had finished these two walls after some hours, they began