In a thundering voice he said, “Your fear is two-fold! You fear being in fear of me! You cannot conceal it, for you are weaker than the thin thread of the spider. What is your earthly name?”

I leaned against a great rock, gathered myself from this sudden shock, and in a sickly, trembling voice replied, “My name is Abdallah, which means ‘slave of God.’” For a few moments he remained silent with a frightening silence. I grew accustomed to his appearance, but was again shaken by his weird thoughts and words, his strange beliefs and contemplations.

He rumbled, “Numerous are the slaves of God, and great are God’s woes with His slaves. Why did not your father call you ‘Master of Demons’ instead, adding one more disaster to the huge calamity of earth? You cling with terror to the small circle of gifts from your ancestors, and your affliction is caused by your parents’ bequest, and you will remain a slave of death until you become one of the dead.

“Your vocations are wasteful and deserted, and your lives are hollow. Real life has never visited you, nor will it; neither will your deceitful self realize your living death. Your illusioned eyes see the people quivering before the tempest of life and you believe them to be alive, while in truth they have been dead since they were born. There were none who would bury them, and the one good career for you is that of grave digger, and as such you may rid the few living of the corpses heaped about the homes, the paths, and the churches.”

I protested, “I cannot pursue such a vocation. My wife and children require my support and companionship.”

He leaned toward me, showing his braided muscles that seemed as the roots of a strong oak tree, abounding with life and energy, and he bellowed, “Give to each a spade and teach them to dig graves; your life is naught but black misery hidden behind walls of white plaster. Join us, for we genii are the only possessors of reality! The digging of graves brings a slow but positive benefit which causes the vanishing of the dead creatures who tremble with the storm and never walk with it.” He mused and then inquired, “What is your religion?”

Bravely I stated, “I believe in God and I honour His prophets; I love virtue and I have faith in eternity.”

With remarkable wisdom and conviction he responded, “These empty words were placed on human lips by past ages and not by knowledge, and you actually believe in yourself only; and you honour none but yourself, and you have faith only in the eternity of your desires. Man has worshipped his own self since the beginning, calling that self by appropriate titles, until now, when he employs the word ‘God’ to mean that same self.” Then the giant roared with laughter, the echoes reverberating through the hollows of the caverns, and he taunted, “How strange are those who worship their own selves, their real existence being naught but earthly carcasses!”

He paused, and I contemplated his sayings and meditated their meanings. He possessed a knowledge stranger than life and more terrible than death, and deeper than truth. Timidly, I ventured, “Do you have a religion or a God?”

“My name is The Mad God,” he offered, “and I was born at all times, and I am the god of my own self. I am not wise, for wisdom is a quality of the weak. I am strong, and the earth moves under the steps of my feet, and when I stop, the procession of stars stops with me. I mock at the people.… I accompany the giants of night.… I mingle with the great kings of the genii.… I am in possession of the secrets of existence and non-existence.

“In the morning I blaspheme the sun … at noontide I curse humanity … at eventide I submerge nature … at night I kneel and worship myself. I never sleep, for I am time, the sea, and myself.… I eat human bodies for food, drink their blood to quench my thirst, and use their dying gasps to draw my breath. Although you deceive yourself, you are my brother and you live as I do. Begone … hypocrite! Crawl back to earth and continue to worship your own self amid the living dead!”

I staggered from the rocky, cavernous valley in narcotic bewilderment, scarcely believing what my ears had heard and my eyes had seen! I was torn in pain by some of the truths he had spoken, and wandered through the fields all that night in melancholy contemplation.

*    *    *    *    *

I procured a spade and said within myself, “Dig deeply the graves.… Go, now, and wherever you find one of the living dead, bury him in the earth.”

Since that day I have been digging graves and burying the living dead. But the living dead are numerous and I am alone, having none to aid me.…

Honeyed Poison

Honeyed Poison

IT WAS a beautiful morn of dizzying brilliance in North Lebanon when the people of the village of Tula gathered around the portico of the small church that stood in the midst of their dwellings. They were discussing busily the sudden and unexplained departure of Farris Rahal, who left behind his bride of but half a year.

Farris Rahal was the Sheik and leader of the village, and he had inherited this honourable status from his ancestors who had ruled over Tula for centuries. Although he was not quite twenty-seven years of age, he possessed an outstanding ability and sincerity that won the admiration, reverence, and respect of all the fellahin. When Farris married Susan, the people commented upon him, saying, “What a fortunate man is Farris Rahal! He has attained all that man can hope for in the bounty of life’s happiness, and he is but a youth!”

That morning, when all of Tula arose from slumber and learned that the Sheik had gathered his gold, mounted his steed and left the village bidding none farewell, curiosity and concern prevailed, and inquiries were many as to the cause that prompted him to desert his wife and his home, his lands and his vineyards.

*    *    *    *    *

By reason of tradition and geography, life in North Lebanon is highly sociable, and the people share their joys and sorrows, provoked by humble spirit and instinctive clannishness. Upon any occurrence, the entire populace of the village convenes to inquire upon the incident, offers all possible assistance, and returns to labour until fate again offers a congregant mission.

It was such a matter that drew the people of Tula from their work that day, and caused them to gather about the church of Mar Tula discussing the departure of their Sheik and exchanging views upon its singularity.

It was at this time that Father Estephan, head of the local church, arrived, and upon his drawn countenance one could read the unmistakable signs of deep suffering, the signs of a painfully wounded spirit. He contemplated the scene for a moment and then spoke. “Do not ask … do not ask any question of me! Before daybreak this day, Sheik Farris knocked upon the door of my house, and I saw him holding the rein of his horse, and from his face emanated grave sorrow and agonized grief. Upon my remark as to the strangeness of the hour, he replied, ‘Father, I come to bid you farewell, for I am sailing beyond the oceans and will never again return to this land.’ And he handed to me a sealed envelope, addressed to his dearest friend Nabih Malik, asking me to deliver it. He mounted his steed and sped off to the east, affording me no further opportunity to understand the purpose of his unusual departure.”

One of the villagers observed, “Undoubtedly the missive will reveal to us the secret of his going, for Nabih is his closest friend.” Another added, “Have you seen his bride, Father?” The priest replied, saying, “I visited her after the morning prayer and found her standing at the window, staring with unseeing eyes at something invisible, appearing as one who has lost all senses, and when I endeavoured to ask concerning Farris she merely said, ‘I do not know! I do not know!’ Then she wept like a child who suddenly becomes an orphan.”

As the father concluded talking, the group tightened with fear at the startling report of a gunshot coming from the east portion of the village, and it was followed immediately by the bitter wailing of a woman. The throng was in a dismayed trance of immobility for a moment, and then, men, women and children, all ran toward the scene, and upon their faces there was a dark mask of fear and evil omen. As they reached the garden that surrounded the Sheik’s residence, they became witness to a most horrible drama, portrayed with death. Nabih Malik was lying on the ground, a stream of blood issuing from his breast, and by him stood Susan, wife of the Sheik Farris Rahal, tearing her hair and shredding her raiment and flailing her arms about and shrieking wildly, “Nabih … Nabih … why did you do it!”

The onlookers were astounded, and it was as though the unseen hands of fate had clutched with icy fingers at their hearts.