The night the Rhymer went whack

10

The women made kibbeh with warm tzatziki, yogurt, tahini sauce and tabouli. They side-dished it with fattoush, Greek and Mediterranean chickpea salad.

A refugee from Lebanon, he never knew his exact birthday. He considered his birthdate the day he had been found, with his only memories of being hungry, cold and curious. He recalled being snatched up by a group of men as they journeyed. Bumpy was how he described it, laying in his carrier, staring at the bright blue sky. Loud voices and noise kept him awake but he didn’t mind, there was just a feeling of existence that pleased him. Bumpy for what seemed like forever until eventually he was settled into a warm hut surrounded by women for the first time in his life.

Being fed was his best memory. The aromas of fresh bread, cinnamon, cloves, cheese and garlic overloaded his senses as the food was tasty, making him realize how bland and lifeless all of his previous meals had been. They cleaned him and groomed him, save his precious locks that bushed about his face. As he grew, they showed him an affection he had never known, and began teaching him, instilling discipline, hard work and knowledge.

The men would show attention too, from time to time, shuttling him from house to house, protecting him. From what, he didn’t really know, but it was the singing that he enjoyed most. Some nights, the men would return and it delighted him silly when they entered, clapping, singing and dancing, for he knew their performance was a treat. The women too. The mixtures of baritones, falsettos, altos and sopranos captivated a young Dashet, filling his heart and lungs with therapeutic music as he sang along.

Some would bang on buckets or pots and pans, so he rhythmically learned to find beats in common objects such as utensils, boxes, doors, walls, tin, glass and whatever else he could find handy. Sometimes, one of the men would return with an actual instrument and he’d jump at the chance to play and learn it. It was heaven.

But as he got older, he noticed how every so often a family member he had jammed with in the morning wouldn’t return home that night and not one of his original abductors were around to watch him grow into a little boy. It seemed like every so often it was someone new that would bring him a different instrument to play. He knew he was kept inside for some reason he didn’t understand, but, like any kid, he’d beg to go out and play, wondering what the outdoors looked like and why it was so frightful.

He couldn’t even answer the door. A knock and they’d quickly grab and hide him in the underground bunker beneath the floorboard in the only bedroom. “Be quiet,” they’d demand, as he learned to sit still, alone and sometimes for hours listening to every movement and sound above him. He soon learned to distinguish moods with footstep and who was speaking to who. He learned to listen to the silence and all that it bestowed. All while secured in that dark, tiny, five-foot space.

And that’s where he was when he heard a loud explosion. He had heard many before, but this one was too loud, as his ears immediately began ringing. Then silence, he could no longer hear. The ground had shaken, startling him and throwing him about, but he made his way to the latch and attempted to free himself. It didn’t budge. He pushed heavily and frantically with all of his might. Still, it didn’t give. He kept trying and kept failing until exhausted.

He stopped and began sobbing and screaming for freedom. No one answered and the sounds he used to hear while down below, the faint shouting and laughter and scurrying that used to be a blanket of his presence, ceased and now he felt uncovered, leaving him cold and encompassed in a tomb of silence. He screamed some more until his lungs tired, then he settled down and wept, voiceless.

In the dark, he had no idea how long he’d been entombed as hunger began settling in, then starvation as he began feeding on the dried dirt floor searching for tiny morsels of taste. He drank his urine and licked his tears, still trying every so often to push the door free. But as time wore on his strength diminished and all he could do was scratch, stroke and touch his exit to the world. He never gave up until exhausted. One last try, he summoned, knowing that this was the last ounce of effort he had. He gathered what little energy he had stored and reached for the latch but for some reason, instead of pushing, he pulled, and with firmness, he tugged.

Feeling it give way little by little encouraged him to pull harder and soon it opened, tumbling him to the ground along with stones, rocks, mud and dirt. He kept his senses as the debris began falling, and, just before he was completely covered, he got a glimpse of the sun and briefly felt its warmth along with a flash of the clear blue skies and their beauty.

More powerful than the stones, rocks, mud and dirt, he was briefly covered by that essence of the outdoors he was shielded from for so long. He laid trapped for a moment, took a deep breath and in order to fulfill his curiosity, he began to dig with hope and vigor. Through the quietness, he soon slowed his movements when placing each stone aside. He wiped his brow and brushed the dirt from his hair. He dug upward, solemnly, as he assumed no one was left who could stop him from his quest.