As Maryam's Tree Stood Witness

For Mohsen, the day brought something even sweeter than the rainfall that had come, at last, restoring life and greenness to the drought-filled valley. Something in the girl’s eyes made him stop and stare. And he knew that for as long as he lived, he would not forget the way she looked in this moment, balancing a heavy jar carefully on her head. This day felt important. Something was about to change. Mohsen was certain it was so. The perfume of the newly opened flowers and the music of the birds seemed to promise it was so. The girl stopped by a well underneath an ancient palm, and he went to her. He held out his hand to take her heavy burden, and he filled the jar with water. And then for the first time, Mohsen saw the smile of his Maryam, whose name he had yet to learn, although he had dreamed of such a girl, hoped that such a girl existed somewhere in the world. Mohsen beamed back at her with a smile so wide it almost split his face in two. As he handed the jar back, she looked into his eyes. It was as if she wished they could always be as close as they were at that moment. Then a weariness crept into her eyes as she turned to make her way back home. There was a sadness in her hazel eyes as well, as if she didn’t want to leave this magical place beneath the palm. Wait. Don’t go,” said Mohsen. “Who are you? Who’s your clan? And—please—tell me your name. As she began to walk away, the palm fronds waved gently toward her in the breeze, as if to whisper, Stay! The sun had not yet begun to set, and the fading light sent shimmery bits of silver through the dark and silky tresses that the wind blew into her eyes.

“Where do you live?” asked Mohsen.

As if she were too tired to speak, she nodded toward a house off in the distance. Such a long way to walk, he thought. And such delicate (and shapely) ankles that must make the trip with the heavy jar of water. He knew what to do. He’d carry the jar for her. He would go with her!

They gazed at each other, speaking only with their eyes. Silently, he begged her to stay for a little longer. We’ve never met, and yet I know you. You’re meant to belong to me.

But then darkness filled her eyes, and she turned, hurrying away as Mohsen watched her, startled.

Then he soon saw the reason she’d been frightened; they were not alone. A man had appeared whose gait, whose very watchfulness, meant that trouble would soon follow. As it always did with Marouf.

Mohsen felt a chill. Marouf was a gatherer of other people’s secrets, which he used as ammunition. To those secrets, the troublemaker always added lies to make the outcomes darker, more explosive.

Maryam’s figure grew smaller in the distance. She was walking as quickly as she could with the full jar on her head.

Mohsen watched, his longing and his joy had turned to anger just as hers had turned to terror. Just like that, with one intruder, love had turned into fear.

The sun dipped further from the sky as the dusk turned into a somber gray. The changing colors seemed to mark the moment when hope was marred by evil, the moment that two people in the valley became three.

Arriving breathless at her house, Maryam spilled half the contents of her jar in her haste to set it down. Her tears and sweat mingled with the water puddled on the floor. Tears or water from the well? Love, modesty, or fear? She couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Her mother, Asmaa, noticed right away that there something unfamiliar in her daughter’s manner. “Maryam, what’s wrong?” She grabbed her

daughter’s hand.

But the girl just shook her head and wept.

“Did someone hurt you?” asked Asmaa, smoothing back her daughter’s hair.

Maryam shook her head once again, and then she threw herself into her mother’s arms. Why she wept she wasn’t sure. Fear? Or modesty? Maybe it was love. Only at that moment did she understand that with all the other boys who had caught her eye, she had only played at love; this time love was real. Love had come in with a force, taking her breath away. But would she see the man again?

The spilled water dried, but not her tears. She could not stop weeping, lonely for a man she didn’t know—but did know, the man who had touched her soul.

Part of herself was right there in the kitchen, and part of her—the most important part—was back there at the well. Did he wait there still? She wondered where he was and what he was doing now.

She passed the next days in a stupor, her mind on just one thing. She was waiting for a knock, for him to come and find her. But when the knocks did come, the door was opened to an aunt or cousin—and not to the gentle smile and warm, expressive eyes that had come to haunt her dreams.

Her family murmured to each other. Was she ill, they wondered. Could she have been touched by a jinn?

Then the third day came with a knock that sounded different—softer, more insistent. Behind the door was an old woman whose eyes met Maryam’s. Something about the smile felt warm and familiar to the girl. She recognized the woman, although they had never met. This was the woman who had made him.

Maryam moved forward and touched the woman’s hand. For the first time since she’d fled from Marouf, Maryam felt safe.

On entering the home, Umm Mohsen stood back to look carefully at this girl who had so entranced her son. Before he had been her quiet one, ever practical, but now it was as if the boy had been touched by magic.

Then the woman turned her eyes to Asmaa, who had come into the hall to watch with her other daughters. She told them her name and which family she belonged to. And there among the little group, wonder disappeared into confusion; the room was filled with fear. Fear! There it was again.

Maryam’s mother understood that the visitor had come in the name of love. In that way that mothers recognize the deepest stirrings of their children’s hearts, she had come to understand that her daughter had found love that day at the well. Now, this visit on behalf of the Mohsen family did not bode well, she thought. It did not bode well at all. Between this woman’s clan and hers was blood revenge—old debts that must be paid with the taking of a life. A match with Maryam could mean no less than death for this woman’s son, as the wrong could be avenged against any member of the clan.

So why was the woman here?

Asmaa nodded to her daughters, a signal that she wished to speak to their guests alone, one mother to another. “Reconciliation,” she said softly to the woman, “must come before any marriage that takes place between our children.”

“Yes.” Mohsen’s Mother looked her in the eye. “But the marriage, it must happen.” She said it in a low voice. “And my visit to the house? That must be our secret.”

After that, the house felt heavy to Asmaa, as if it still held the mark of an unexpected guest. She worried about the future of her daughter, who had always been so easy and content, singing sweetly while she worked without complaining of her chores. This was the first time that Asmaa had looked into her daughter’s eyes and saw the fire of desire, a wanting in her eyes.

The next day there was a movement in the valley: the usual events that foretell a joyful union in the works. A delegate from Mohsen’s clan arrived at the door requesting that the families be reconciled—with no blood to be shed.

Asmaa nodded; it was done.

The next morning, Maryam felt a rush of warmth as she took hold of the jar to place it on her head. He had touched the jar; it was no longer just a source of water, one more chore in her long day. She had been awakened to a joy she never knew existed. As she went about her day, she dreamed of how his touch might feel. He was a stranger, really, but just the same, she knew him well; she had read his soul when she glanced into his eyes.

But even as she thrilled in anticipation of seeing him again, Maryam was terrified. When the interloper had come upon the scene that day beneath the palm, she had felt his soul as well, and that soul was dark. So much so that her feet had stiffened and, for just a moment, she had lost the strength to walk.

She imagined how it might have been if the dark man hadn’t come. Before fear came into the picture, something had seemed to draw her closer to the stranger at the well. She had longed to lay her head against his strong chest, where his warmth and his heartbeat could comfort her and thrill her.

Now, she was lost in thought as she headed once more to the valley. Then her heart skipped a beat as she got closer to the well. As if a picture from her dreams had sprung magically to life, underneath the palm tree was the tantalizing stranger.

Although she shyly cast her eyes down, she could feel his yearning pulling her toward him. Could it be that he dreamed at night of the same things that she did?

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Joy welled up in Mohsen. If she would only look at him! He let his eyes linger on the exquisite lines of her tiny shoulders and the soft skin of her neck, but he longed to see her face. He had not been able to forget her eyes. They’d made him think of how the oryx, with a single look, could a make a hunter stop and lay down his gun. There was power in those eyes.

Finally, she looked up, her cheeks flushed with a desire that he longed to press his lips against. But for now, he could only look. With no words said between them, they shared in the joy of understanding that soon they would be wed. They each had figured out the meaning of the whispers and increased activity as plans were being made in each of their homes.

But until that day could come, a sense of magic hovered in the space between a boy and a girl who couldn’t touch—but who knew that all the pleasures of the other would soon be theirs to cherish.

Then the scene went dark, just as it before. Like a snake scattering its poison, Marouf passed them at a distance but close enough for them to see. And the magic disappeared, blacked out by a terror that chilled Maryam to the core and ripped at Mohsen’s heart.

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