Story of the Month: This Land Is Ours!

... Ours ...

The masked horseman said, astride his jet-black steed:

— I forgot, old uncle... I forgot to tell you... Abu al-Fahd has been killed!...

— Abu al-Fahd?!... What are you saying?!...

— Yesterday... in broad daylight... by the roadside... with a single bullet from the mouth of this pistol!...

He said this, brandishing in his hand a pistol he had drawn from his belt, and gave a stifled laugh that died away in a gunshot the valley echoed back; then he gathered his cloak, spurred his horse, and sped off racing the wind...

The old man looked at his aged wife with a bewildered look, full of questioning and full of wonder, and said:

— And who might this masked man be?!... And why does he turn aside to us at this early hour of the morning?!... For a drink of water?! I do not understand!

But Umm Husni was still struck dumb, sending out her dim eyes and seeing nothing but a storm of dust subsiding and subsiding, straining her heavy ears and hearing nothing but the fall of hoofbeats fading and fading, until, when everything had subsided and everything had faded, she answered as if waking from a swoon or recovering a memory:

— Like a dream... so it seemed to me... like a dream coming to pass!...

As for Husni, he was in turmoil, and he was in calm. He saw this bewilderment in his father's bewildered eyes, and this stupor showed to him on his mother's wrinkled face, while the like of that bewilderment sank deep in his own eyes, and the like of that stupor floated on his own face, and what had stirred within him of misery and disappointment and deprivation was smothered in his depths. He strained his hearing toward this wind that had begun to blow, and stretched his sight toward these clouds that had begun to race, and he wished he could say something, but he did not know what to say; instead he turned from his mother and father toward the hut, made ready the yoke and the plow and the team of oxen, and went down the knoll to the valley.

★

Pale shadows crept over the slopes of the knoll, and faint sounds spread through the folds of the valley. Morning had begun to breathe, the plow began to cleave the earth, and the fleeting memories began to toy with Husni's thoughts as the wind toys with these clouds — scattering and dispersing when they scattered and dispersed, then racing and overtaking one another when they raced and overtook — until it seemed that these clouds massing thick and dusky in the sky were these cares knotting heavy and black upon the brow, leaving in the eye something of wonder and on the lip something of questioning. It was as if Husni remembered this masked man — remembered his cool voice and his two black eyes — yet he did not know why he passed by the quarter in the morning, nor what he was to Abu al-Fahd, or to al-Fahd, or to al-Fahd's sister — that dark girl, companion of childhood, intimate of youth, the sweet basil of the valley, who never leaves the heart in any waking hour of day and never leaves the heart in any slumber of night; the sweet basil of the valley whose memory still flutters over the valley, hovering and wafting, until time itself seems to stand still, and life to run backward, to those last moments when she knelt at her father's feet, imploring, weeping:

— Leave me in the valley, father... leave me...

And that father shouted in her face, enraged:

— Shame on you, disgraceful girl... sister of a disgrace... You are leaving this wasteland, whether you will or no... Then he dragged her by her hair, his tongue never ceasing to hurl insults, while she writhed in his grip and moaned, in her eyes a glance toward the home grounds, and on her lips a cry to the people of the quarter...

Husni tried to drive away these returning memories, and busied himself with these two oxen surrendering to the yoke, this plow cleaving the earth, this soil parting on either side; he took pleasure in the lowing that filled his ears, grew calm at the soft soil that filled his eyes, softened to the sweet wafting scent that filled his nose... Then thoughts went roaming through his head: this evening he would finish the plowing, and tomorrow morning he would begin the work. This bank he would plant with cucumbers and snake cucumbers; there, on the shoulder of the knoll, he would set out orange and lemon trees; and above,

from the top of the cypress saplings, along the length of the hedge, he would sow wheat and barley... Then he would pull up the dry brush, level the ground, break down the gullies, and gather the pebbles and stones into heaps stretching along the hedge, from the rocks of the rough ground, to the cypress saplings, down to the riverbank... And the season would yield him plenty this year, securing his vegetables, his wheat and his barley, besides what the cows would give of labneh and butter and ghee... And after a year... after two years, the saplings would grow and the fruit would ripen, and he would pick it and take it to the markets of the neighboring mountain... and sell... and profit... and he and his mother and his father would live in comfort... and the valley would grow sweet... and life would grow good... And how not, when here is his land, here his people and his kin, here his livelihood, his living, and his rest... And whatever may come, he will never cease to seek livelihood and living and rest, never forsake people and kin, never neglect the land; rather he will tend it with his care day after day and year after year, never selling, never thinking of selling, never dreaming of leaving... No, he will not do as their neighbor Abu al-Fahd did, who sold the Jews the field and the orchard and the vineyards of grape and fig and olive, then deserted the valley and went off to the mountain — so that when the people of the quarter came to blame him, and Abu Husni said to him reproachfully:

— What have you done, Abu al-Fahd?!... You wrong yourself and your family and us!... Could you not have waited and thought the matter over well?!

He answered them indignantly, mockery and scorn in his tone:

— I have left the waiting and the thinking to you, my counseling friends... Stay in this barren valley of yours... then plow as you please, and sow as you fancy... As for me, I shall sell... and rest easy... and boast... and after me, the deluge...

It was as if these memories had come back to him, pressing upon him harshly, pressing upon him gently; as if these pale shadows floating on the slopes of the knoll, and these faint sounds spreading through the folds of the valley — as if everything had begun to tease him with a gentleness that was no gentleness, and to sport with him with a cruelty that was no cruelty, until he seemed to go back years, and the world lay between summer and autumn, and the day between night and morning: for while he was

driving the cows to the spring, one cow strayed into a neighboring vineyard, and no sooner had he turned into the vineyard to bring her back than there came a fierce barking and a shouted call from afar:

— Who's that tramping through the vineyard?!...

Husni turned, and there at the edge of the vineyard stood a watchman's hut of boughs, and at its door a dark girl, slender of figure, the wind puffing out her thin dress and playing with her long hair; beside her a white dog, still wagging its tail and stretching out its neck with barks that reached him along with the call:

— Who's that in the vineyard?!... Man or cattle?!...

— A neighbor of yours... a near neighbor...

— A neighbor of ours?!... How many neighbors there are!... Come, out of the vineyard, or else draw near the hut... or 'Baroud' will set upon you and tear you to pieces... Who are you?!...

— Husni... Husni, son of Abu Husni... herdsman of the cows. I was taking them to the spring... and one cow strayed... but she has not nibbled a single leaf off a vine... She's a sensible one... and gives a ratl of milk a day... two ratls... Don't you like cow's milk?!...

— Why, I like no milk but it!...

— Then bring a bowl... and this one's milk is not like any other milk... and you shall have a bowl every day...

— Is this the first time you've taken this path?!...

— Why, every morning and every evening... but I never caught sight of you before... and I never knew there was a dark neighbor girl in the valley... just as I do not know this neighbor's name!...

— Rihana... Rihana, daughter of Abu al-Fahd, and sister of al-Fahd...

— What a lovely name!... Like the breath of the vineyards... O dark one!...

— Dark one?!... No, I'm no dark one!... But my family made me keeper of the vineyards, and the sun has browned me and the wind scorched me... Won't you stay a little, and wet your throat with a cluster of grapes and a fig?... Our clusters are dewy... and our figs delicious!...

And Husni felt as if the flavor of grapes and figs still clung to his mouth... But he kept passing by the hut on every going and every returning; he would fill the bowl of milk for her, and she would make ready the basket of grapes and figs for him, and they would eat until they were full, and drink until their thirst was quenched, and laugh and sing until they tired... So, day after day... until it chanced that they met one noon on the bridge of the spring, and Rihana called to him:

— Where to from here, Husni?

— To the other bank... to the spring and the pasture... And you, where to?

— To the other bank... to the vineyard... Is there anything but the vineyard?!...

— How far the vineyard is from the pasture... and the one bank from the other... were it not for this bridge!...

— There will always be a bridge there!...

— Who knows?!... The torrent may sweep it away when winter comes and the river floods!...

— But we shall trace it out again... There must be a bridge there... for the vineyard longs for the pasture, and the bank yearns for the other bank... and were it not for this river... Listen, I have an idea... You take a handful of our soil and scatter it in your soil, and I take a handful of your soil and scatter it in ours...

And Husni felt that he was still clutching a handful of earth, its dust still staining his palm... But he kept passing by the hut and waiting on the bridge, the two of them between eating and drinking, laughter and song and play... So... day after day, and week after week... until the late afternoon of that day, when he was sitting on the old smooth rock, beneath the ancient oak towering on the shoulder of the knoll, and Rihana came up behind him stealing on tiptoe, then drew near, clapped her palms over his eyes and pressed, and he cried out in fright:

— Who?!...

— ...

— Who?!... How am I to guess?!... What teasing is this, and what jesting?!... Who?!

— ...

— Oof... what a droll one!...

But his hands went feeling and probing, and found slender soft fingers, a thin flowing dress, a slim slender waist, long tumbling hair, a smooth cheek, a lip — two lips... So he said, holding fast to her and turning about:

— It's you, you little devil!... You... who else!

Then he wrapped her in his arms and drew her to him, in something of playfulness and something of reproach; but she said, trying to slip loose and escape:

— And what is this, sitting here all alone?!... Perhaps you have a rendezvous!...

— Do you see this land, Rihana?!...

— This land?! What do I see but land upon land?!...

— All this land is ours... and it shall become a paradise... become a world... from the rocks of the rough ground to the riverbank... from the bridge of the spring to the vineyard of grape and fig... All this land is ours!...

And it seemed to Husni that he was still sitting on the rock, with Rihana all but slipping from between his arms... But he kept passing by the hut, and waiting on the bridge, and sitting on the rock,

the two of them between eating and drinking, song and play, jest and earnest... So... day after day, and week after week, and month after month... and the world around her was gladness... and the world was radiance... had not Umm al-Fahd been tossing on a sickbed, her state growing worse and worse... and had not al-Fahd been driven from the house by his father for defying his stern orders... and had not the people of the quarter begun to shun Abu al-Fahd, since he sold the field and the orchard and the vineyards of grape and fig and olive... until that day... when her father screamed at her in anger, then dragged her by her hair, his tongue never ceasing to hurl insults, while she writhed in his grip and moaned, in her eyes a glance toward the home grounds, and on her lips a cry to the people of the quarter!...

★

And Husni went on chasing these returning memories that pressed upon him, tickling him and toying with him; but still they fluttered about him, hovering and wafting, moment after moment, and hour after hour...

And it was noon... and it was afternoon... and Husni finished the plowing; he loosed the yoke, cast down the plow, and turned the oxen free, his insides pinched with hunger, his throat parched with thirst, his face seared by the blaze of the sun and the scorch of the wind...

But the wind had died down, the clouds had thinned, and the sun had leaned toward its setting; and everything was pale and faint, save those shadows that still floated, and those sounds that still spread.

He stood a moment... he stood for moments... then he turned, and there at the edge of the neighboring vineyard was the shattered skeleton of a watchman's hut, nothing left of it but four bare posts; and at the bend of the river, the remains of a disfigured bridge, near to falling; and on the shoulder of the knoll, beneath the ancient oak, an old smooth rock, still more lasting than life and more enduring than time!...

Before he knew it he was striding through the gullies, and before he was aware he was sitting on the rock, his heavy head taken between his hands, thinking...

Long he sat... and long he thought... Here he was, done with the work, but weary, hungry, thirsty, finding in the depths of his soul, and finding in the bottom of the valley, nothing but misery and disappointment and deprivation... His two aged parents would not live long, and he had no companions or friends or loved ones but those who had gone from him, leaving in this wasteland nothing but a phantom, or a phantom's shadow; a call, or a call's echo...

And it was as if a faint, plaintive voice passed through his ear:

— Husni... Husni...

He sprang from his place, stretched his gaze in bewilderment, strained his hearing in stupor, turned to the right and turned to the left, but saw nothing and heard nothing; and he fancied himself deluded, so he went back to his seat and took his head between his hands... A moment passed... moments passed... and he had nearly forgotten everything, had not that voice come back, whispering in his ears, plaintive and faint:

— Husni... Husni... I have come back, Husni!...

He started up from his place, and there behind him was a dark girl, her hair loosed, her dress torn, her feet bruised, making her way toward him feebly; then she sank down at his feet, weeping, sobbing, and said, pressing her face against the dust:

— I have come back, Husni... I have come back...

— Ri... Rihana!!! Where have you come from?...

And how?... And when?... Is it true that...

— My father was killed... yesterday... and his body still lies by the roadside... And I fled the house... for the house is desolation... and the house is emptiness... and the house is...

— And your mother, Rihana?!... And your brother?!...

— My mother?!... Oh, my mother — how she died, months ago... died of my father's cruelty... he who would not pay a doctor's fee or the price of a medicine, though he would spend the hundred and the thousand just so... until the house became a gambling den... and the house became a tavern... and the house became... ah... what shall I say, Husni!... If only my brother knew... But he left the house, and came back only twice: once he came in secret to see me; and once, two days ago, he came and asked for my father, and I saw them quarreling and heard them shouting at each other... And the last my brother said was: 'Would that you were not my father... You have squandered your money, scattered your family, and become a stain of shame upon us and upon yourself... Stop the selling, father... stop the brokering... stop the drinking and the gambling and the carousing... Stop, or you shall learn what end awaits everyone who betrays his family and his land and his homeland... And if all men forgive you and you escape, know that you shall not escape from one person at least who will never forgive you... and whose hand never misses the mark...' Husni!... Won't you forgive me, Husni?!... Say that you forgive... These dear grounds — I still have a longing for them and an abiding yearning... Here I was raised, Husni, and here I lived, and I want to die nowhere but here!... I passed by the hut, and the old uncle and my uncle's wife told me you were here... They are helpless... but I shall provide for them... I shall tend the cows and milk them, and make the labneh and the butter and the ghee... I shall spin the wool and weave it into garments... I shall sew and mend... and clean and cook... Here is my heart, Husni... and here my mind... and here my hand... And this soft soil... this good earth... we shall make it a paradise... we shall make it a world... from the rocks of the rough ground, to the riverbank... from the bridge of the spring, to the vineyard of grape and fig... All this land is ours!...

And it was as if a flood of joy and radiance swept over Husni; he bent over her, and lifted her up to him, and said, circling her with his arms:

— Yes... Rihana... yes... All this land is ours, and we shall raise the watchman's hut and repair the bridge... and build another hut... here... on this old rock... beneath this ancient oak... and we shall...

But he did not know what to say; instead he clasped her in longing, and clasped her in tenderness — a heart beating into a heart, a soul breathing into a soul, a mouth drawing near a mouth — while the oxen began to climb the knoll, and before the hut stood two figures: an old man waving his kaffiyeh, and an old woman wiping her eyes with the tip of her sleeve; and through the mind passed a fleeting thought: the phantom of a masked horseman, racing the wind, on the back of a jet-black steed!...