Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  When her father came back, Hoda was allowed to see Ahiram who had been locked up in his room. He was sleeping on the floor and had bruises on his arms and legs and a swollen, black eye.

  Seeing him like this, a wave of anger filled her. Why can’t he behave just once! Must I be with him all the time? She shook him. “Ahiram, come on, it’s dinner time.”

  He woke up in a daze, saw his sister, smiled, and stretched. “Hoda, you’re back,” he said scratching his head. “So, did you see him again?”

  “Who?”

  “The fellow you saw last week.”

  “What fellow?” she said her heart beating faster. You are a boy, you’re not supposed to notice these things, she thought.

  “The man who came with Syreen,” continued Ahiram yawning like a whale. “He seemed nice.”

  “No, I did not see him, why do you ask?”

  “I’ve heard Mother and Father. They said you will be married soon, and you will be gone.” He cocked his head and stared at his sister with his hazel eyes that could be so serious at times. “I am leaving, Hoda.”

  “What?” said his sister nearly panicking. Guilt and shame overwhelmed her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t continue like this,” he said seriously. “Father said I can’t join him on his boat with my bad temper. He’s right. I could harm someone, you know. You’re the only one who can help me calm myself, but you can’t keep doing it. I know you’re upset with me, just like Mother and Father. I understand why you’re all upset with me.”

  “Ahiram, stop it.”

  “It’s true, Hoda. I heard you talking to Mother.”

  Hoda took him in her arms and held him tightly, nearly choking him. “Listen to me, Ahiram. Yes, at times I do get irritated with you, and yes, I wish you did not have this terrible temper. I wish I could spend time with Karadon, that’s also true, but let me ask you this: if I were the one with the bad temper, and if it were you who had to take care of me, would you let me go?”

  Ahiram looked into his sister’s eyes and said quietly, calmly, and with a will that struck his sister like a fist, “Never. I would never let you go, no matter what. We will always be together.”

  “But would you not be irritated with me?”

  “I can’t be irritated with you, Hoda, you’re the best.”

  She held him again and hugged him. “Ahiram, son of Jabbar, I will never let you go.”

  He held her tightly, and she knew he was crying.

  Late that night, Hoda went into Ahiram’s bedroom. He was sleeping fitfully, and his breathing was irregular, as if he was still crying. She ran her finger down his cheek and kissed him. He smiled in his sleep. Quietly, she pulled the medallion from under his shirt, but just before slipping it over his head, she hesitated for fear of what may happen. Ahiram rolled onto his side. Hoda snatched the medallion and went back to her room where she hid it under her pillow. If someone asks me, I can say I found it on the floor and planned to give it back to him in the morning. Wanting to check on her brother in short order, she leaned her back against the wall, closed her eyes and waited in the dark.

  “Hoda, wake up. Wake up, Hoda.”

  The young woman opened her eyes and saw her mother standing next to her bed. She sat up. “Mother, what is it? Is Father alright?”

  “Your father is fine. He is home,” replied her mother, her forehead creased with worry. “It’s your brother. He is unwell. Go help your father while I get Aunt Samra. Perhaps she will know what to do.”

  Hoda bolted out of bed and ran to her brother’s room. She could not remember the last time he had been sick. She found him drenched with a feverish sweat, and his breathing had become labored. Jabbar was by his bedside applying cold compresses to the boy’s forehead.

  Seeing Ahiram’s uncovered chest, Hoda noticed that the medallion was missing. She was about to ask her father about it when she remembered. I took it away, and I was supposed to check up on him. Quickly, she ran to her room and brought back the medallion.

  “Father,” she said dipping her fingers into the water bowl, “the water is tepid.” It was actually glacial. Discreetly, she spilled it out the window and handed the empty bowl to Jabbar. “Could you please fetch some more for me? I’ll take care of Ahiram.”

  Silently, her father rose and went out to fetch a fresh bowl of water. Quickly, Hoda slid the medallion around her brother’s neck. By the time her father was back, Ahiram’s breathing had eased up, and by the time their mother walked in with Aunt Samra, Ahiram’s fever had abated.

  “Morning of goodness,” said the gentle woman, greeting Jabbar. She had snow-white hair and skin as soft as a baby’s.

  “Morning of light,” replied Jabbar.

  Samra examined Ahiram and listened intently to his breathing. “Like I told you, Hayat,” she said, rising slowly. “It’s a passing fever. Maybe he ate a rotten fruit or maybe a spider bit him. Tomorrow, he should be fully recovered.”

  “Thank you, Samra,” said Hayat. “We have grieved you,” she added, employing the usual expression that meant “I am sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “Wallaw” (come now), replied Samra. “No grieving whatsoever; what are neighbors for? We look after each other in Baher-Ghafé. Do not hesitate to call me if his fever goes back up.”

  Hayat walked her to the door. “May your day be full of peace.”

  “And may you remain in peace,” replied Samra.

  “Hoda, we have a good catch ahead of us,” said her father visibly relieved. “I need you to help on the boat this morning. Hayat, you’ll be alright now?”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, Jabbar. Go, and may El keep you.”

  “May he remain with you,” said Jabbar. He kissed his wife. “Let’s be on our way, Hoda. We are late.”

  “Coming, Father.” Hoda rushed back into her brother’s room. He was wide awake.

  “Hoda,” he said smiling weakly, “I dreamt of you.”

  “You did?” asked his sister, kissing his forehead to feel his temperature. It was back to normal. “What was I doing in your dream?”

  “I was standing on a hill overlooking a wide plain. Creatures sprouted from the plain and formed a vast army that came after me. By the time they reached the hilltop, you were standing next to me, then you became a huge tower, and I stood on top of that tower. My medallion shot out a white beam, and they were all gone. You told me I should give you my medallion. I asked you why, then I woke up.”

  “What an imagination you have,” said Hoda, breathless. “You should rest now, and I’ll see you after I come back from helping Father.”

  Ahiram’s features darkened. All he wanted was to be a shark fisherman like his father, but until he learned to control his temper, he was barred from their boats. “Don’t you worry,” she whispered. “You’ll get to fish with Father. I promise.”

  He looked at her and smiled. “Thanks, Hoda.”

  Baher-Ghafé was the only village north of Baalbeck allowed to bait and fish shark. Half a mile south of the village, the sea bottom sloped gently for the first two hundred yards from shore and then dropped dramatically into an abyss beyond a steep cliff. Over the years, the salty water had managed to pierce through rocks that protruded from the cliff, turning them into natural anchor points for the fishing hooks that the men of Baher-Ghafé used to bait sharks. These anchors greatly increased the safety of their operation, but the nets the women weaved were the true hallmark of Baher-Ghafé. They were so strong a shark could not tear through them; and the making of their threads was the prized secret of the village, one that was protectively guarded with pride.

  The fishermen would bait white or salmon sharks with pieces of pork or beef. Once a shark was hooked, the men dropped a net around it. While it attempted to free itself, the shark would rapidly become entangled in the net, and either suffocate or die of sheer exhaustion. The men carefully prodded the shark with long spears for fear that any bloodshed would attract other sharks and spoil the catch. Th
ey then hauled it to shore, where they prepared it following a local recipe.

  When Jabbar and Hoda reached the coast, four small fishing boats were tussled by strong waves and Yonnan Sheraby and his son, Antoun, were waiting for them on the beach.

  “How’s the lad?” inquired Yonnan.

  “Nothing to worry about. A simple fever; it’ll pass. That boy is so strong he could swallow the sea for breakfast, the forest for lunch, and the mountains for dinner, and he would still be hungry.”

  Yonnan gave his friend a wide grin. “Good to know.” He looked at Hoda and smiled. “You brought the princess, I see.”

  The Sherabys and the Jabbars had been neighbors, partners and friends for as long as Hoda could remember. Mr. Sheraby was as generous as he was gentle, and he had called her “princess” for the first time when she had scraped her knee. She was then ten years old. “A princess does not cry,” he had told her, “not over a small thing like that. Come on, let’s go see Mrs. Sheraby. She’ll get you all cleaned up and she might still have some of that pomegranate drink you like so much.”

  It had stuck. So much so, that even Antoun, a reserved young man, her junior by a few years, had called her “princess” without giving it a second thought.

  Jabbar placed his hand on Hoda’s shoulder. “Yes, I did indeed bring the princess.” he replied. “She loves fishing, remember? Let’s head out now, it’s going to be a good night.”

  “Are you trying to make a man out of her?” teased Yonnan as they stepped into the boat.

  “Not at all,” explained Jabbar, “I’m hoping the graceful sharks might teach her a thing or two about elegance, else no one will marry her.”

  Yonnan laughed. Antoun blushed and Hoda smiled and breathed deeply the air of the sea. The truth was that she loved shark fishing.

  After several hours of toil on an angry sea, the villagers reached the shore with four sharks in their nets—a good catch by any measure.

  Quickly, Hoda used razor sharp knives to carve the meat, then helped the women season it with a mixture of garlic, lemon juice, and spices. They smoked it slowly, letting the seasoning brine the meat before packing it in special wooden containers that two fishermen would later deliver to the Temple. The financial reward was split evenly among the families, while ten percent went into a common coffer for the needs of the village.

  By the time she returned home, the sun was at its zenith. Hoda washed up and helped her mother with house chores. Hayat shared with her daughter the latest news of the village. Young Auline had asked Hayat if she could lend a hand in the wedding preparations, and Hoda’s mother had accepted. Aunt Salma had brought some namoorah for Ahiram—his favorite sweet. Hoda laughed when her mother told her how Ahiram had tried to bribe the six girls of the Mrad family next door by promising them a piece of namoorah each if they gathered the wood for him. Instead, the girls had fought over who would get the biggest piece, and they had accused Ahiram of playing favorites.

  “You know,” added her mother, a twinkle in her eye, “he has a thing for Maha, their fourth daughter.”

  “He does?” exclaimed Hoda, surprised. “He never told me. Ahiram is keeping secrets from me now?”

  “I’m not surprised,” said her mother. “He is afraid that if he told you about his friendship with Maha, you would no longer be there for him.”

  “But why?”

  “Because, my dear daughter, he is like a boy lost at sea, who survives by holding onto a raft, the only raft around. If he lets go, he will drown.” Hayat looked at her daughter with great tenderness. “He doesn’t know how to let go of you, Hoda.”

  Hoda felt a lump in her throat. I should have known. Poor Ahiram. Unable to hold back anymore, she held her mother’s arm and asked,

  “What about me, Mother? When will I be set free?”

  Her mother sighed, held her daughter tightly and said nothing.

  “So where is he now?” asked Hoda, after a while.

  “In the woods, gathering fuel for the fire.”

  The young woman stared at Hayat, “You let him out? But he was so sick only a few hours ago.”

  “He is fully recovered,” explained her mother. “Even Samra was surprised how quickly he recovered. It must be his temper; so you see, it’s not all bad.”

  “Mother, do you mind if I go visit with Syreen?”

  “Not at all, my dear.” Smiling to herself, she continued, “What’s his name? Is he of a good family?”

  “Who?”

  “The young man you met, of course.”

  “Ahiram told you about Karadon?”

  “Karadon, that’s a nice name. I like that. No, your brother would never betray your secrets.”

  “Then, how—”

  “Hoda, I was a young woman once. I know you enjoy Syreen’s company, but everyone has been talking about her dashing mysterious cousin. Then out of the blue, you want to visit her, and you’re tense and impatient. So, off you go, but remember—”

  “Yes, Mother, don’t you worry. Father would have to meet him first. What am I saying? I just met him.”

  Hoda ran out of the house before her mother could reply. She crossed the short distance to Byblos by walking on the beach, constantly on the lookout for the mysterious stranger, but he was nowhere to be seen. Syreen opened the door and the two friends went into the expansive kitchen.

  “No one is here now,” said Syreen as they sat around a large table by a window that overlooked an enclosed garden. “My parents have gone to a function at the Temple with our three maids, so we can speak freely. Tell me what you found out while I prepare tea. Would you like a piece of namoorah? It’s fresh from this morning.”

  Hoda could not help but smile at the mention of the treat. “No, thanks, Syreen. I’m not hungry.”

  “Did something happen with the medallion?” prompted her friend.

  Hoda related how her brother had suddenly became so very sick and recovered just as quickly once she returned the medallion to him.

  “Then I guess there is no time for tea,” said Syreen, taking the pot of water off the stove. “Hoda, my source told me that if this were to happen, if Ahiram were to fall ill when you took the medallion away, then I must take you to him at once. Your entire village is in mortal danger. We must go now.”

  “Really?” whispered Hoda. “I didn’t think it would be this serious.”

  “Come with me,” said her friend.

  They went back to the young woman’s room, where she snatched a scarf and resolutely faced Hoda. “I need to blindfold you. I am sorry.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I cannot show you the way to my contact. He likes his privacy.”

  “But Syreen, I won’t talk—you know me.”

  “Sorry, Hoda, his orders. You need to talk to him, and I will take you there, but I have to blindfold you first.”

  Hoda sighed and gave her consent. Expertly, Syreen tied the scarf around her eyes. As they left the room, Hoda felt that her life would never be the same. The echo of her footsteps on the marble reminded her of the sound of an anchor being lifted just before a ship leaves beloved shores for an unknown voyage.

  “Some say Baher-Ghafé means ‘the slumbering giant who keeps watch in his dreams.’ The name is ancient, predating the Wars of Riharon and the coming of Tanniin. Sureï the Sorcerer told me the mighty Baal stood on the shores of this little village, after having subdued Yem, and ordered him to sleep.”

  –Teachings of Oreg, High Priest of Baal

  Syreen led her blindfolded friend down a corridor Hoda did not know existed, then down some stairs. The air was damp, and she heard water trickling all around her.

  “Where is the water coming from?” asked Hoda, a tremor in her voice. “Are we walking under the sea?”

  Syreen laughed, for she knew what her friend was thinking.

  “The first time I took this passage, I was blindfolded too, and also thought I was below the Great Sea on my way to the eternal abode of the dead.”
>
  “Well, this is unnerving.”

  “To say the least, but it is a short passage, and we’re coming to the end of it. Careful now, there’s a step ahead of you.”

  They began walking onto a hard surface with hot air wafting about them. Hoda breathed a sigh of relief when she no longer heard the sound of water. Syreen led them through a maze of left and right turns. Throughout their journey, Syreen would direct her friend to bend down, lower her head, cross over a crevice, or climb onto a step. Eventually, they reached the top of a long flight of stairs. Hoda, judging by the echo of her feet on the stony floor, determined that they were inside a wide room. The air was fresh and dry. Syreen took Hoda’s blindfold away, and she blinked a few times until her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Across from her, a hooded figure sat cross-legged behind a low table with a simmering cup of tea. The silence in the room was complete.

  “Hoda, welcome. Please, have a seat.”

  The voice was masculine, soft-spoken, strong but not threatening. Most likely, a man my father’s age, thought the young woman as she slowly sat down.

  “Please forgive the secrecy, but it cannot be helped. While we do not doubt your sincerity, let us just say that there are others, less scrupulous, who would like to find me by any means necessary, including torture.”

  Hoda winced and glanced at Syreen, as though saying, What have you gotten yourself into, and why did you drag me into all this?

  “Indeed,” continued the mysterious man, “by bringing you here, Syreen exposed you to danger. But this danger, I am afraid, is nothing compared to the dire situation your entire village is in as we speak. Once you understand the nature of your brother’s medallion, you will better appreciate the great service your friend has rendered you and your loved ones.”

  “Sir, if as you assert, my brother, my family, and my entire village are in grave danger,” replied Hoda with carefully chosen words, “I would want to know absolutely everything about this threat to help protect Baher-Ghafé.”