On the north side of that
village, in the midst of the wind-torn fields, stood the solitary home
of a woman named Rachel, and her daughter Miriam who had not then
attained the age of eighteen. Rachel was the widow of Samaan Ramy, who
was found slain six years earlier, but the law of man did not find the
murderer.
Like the rest of the Lebanese widows,
Rachel sustained life through long, hard work. During the harvest
season, she would look for ears of corn left behind by others in the
field, and in Autumn she gathered the remnants of some forgotten
fruits in the gardens. In Winter she spun wool and made raiment for
which she received a few piastres or a bushel of grain. Miriam, her
daughter, was a beautiful girl who shared with her mother the burden
of toil.
That bitter night the two women were
sitting by the fireplace whose warmth was weakened by the frost and
whose firebrands were buried beneath the ashes. By their side was a
flickering lamp that sent its yellow, dimmed rays into the heart of
darkness like a prayer that sends phantoms of hope into the hearts of
the sorrowful.
Midnight had come and they were listening
to the wailing winds outside. Every now and then Miriam would get up,
open the small transom and look toward the obscured sky, and then she
would return to her chair worried and frightened by the raging
elements. Suddenly Miriam started, as if she had awakened from a swoon
of deep slumber. She looked anxiously toward her mother and said,
"Did you hear that, Mother? Did you hear a voice calling for
help?" The mother listened a moment and said, "I hear
nothing but the crying wind, my daughter." Then Miriam exclaimed,
"I heard a voice deeper than the thundering heaven and more
sorrowful than the wailing of the tempest."
Having uttered these words. she stood up
and opened the door and listened for a moment. Then she said, "I
hear it again, Mother!" Rachel hurried toward the frail door and
after a moment's hesitation she said, "And I hear it, too. Let us
go and see."
She wrapped herself with a long robe,
opened the door and walked out cautiously, while Miriam stood at the
door, the wind blowing her long hair.
Having forced her way a short distance
through the snow, Rachel stopped and shouted out, "Who is calling
. . . where are you?" There was no answer; then she repeated the
same words again and again, but she heard naught except thunder. Then
she courageously advanced forward, looking in every direction. She had
walked for some time, when she found some deep footprints upon the
snow; she followed them fearfullly and in a few moments found a human
body lying before her on the snow, like a patch on a white dress. As
she appraoched him and leaned his head over her knees, she felt his
pulse that bespoke his slowing heart beats and his slim chance in
life. She turned her face toward the hut and called, "Come,
Miriam, come and help me, I have found him!" Miriam rushed out
and followed her mother's footprints, while shivering with cold and
trembling with fear. As she reached the place and saw the youth lying
motionless, she cried with an aching voice. The mother put her hands
under his armpits, calmed Miriam and said, "Fear not, for he is
still living; hold the lower edge of his cloak and let us carry him
home."
Confronted with the strong wind and heavy
snow, the two women carried the youth and started toward the hut. As
they reached the little haven, they laid him down by the fireplace.
Rachel coomenced rubbing his numbed hands and Miriam drying his hair
with the end of her dress. The youth began to move after a few
minutes. His eyelids quivered and he took a deep sigh -- a sigh that
brought the hope of his safety into the hearts of the merciful women.
They removed his shoes and took off his black robe. Miriam looked at
her mother and said, "Observe his raiment, Mother; these clothes
are worn by the monks." After feeding the fire with a bundle of
dry sticks, Rachel looked at her daughter with perplexity and said,
"The monks do not leave their convent on such a terrible
night." And Miriam inquired, "But he has no hair on his
face; the monks wear beards." The mother gazed at him with eyes
full of mercy and maternal love; then she turned to her daughter and
said, "It makes no difference whether he is a monk or a criminal;
dry his feet well, my daughter." Rachel opened a closet, took
from it a jar of wine and poured some in an earthenware bowl. Miriam
held his head while the mother gave him some of it to stimulate his
heart. As he sipped the wine he opened his eyes for the first time and
gave his rescuers a sorrowful look mingled with tears of gratitude --
the look of a human who felt the smooth touch of life after having
been gripped in the sharp claws of death -- a look of great hope after
hope had died. Then he bent his head, and his lips trembled when he
uttered the words, "May God bless both of you." Rachel
placed her hand upon his shoulder and said, "Be calm, brother. Do
not tire yourself with talking until you gain strength." And
Miriam added, "Rest your head on this pillow, brother, and we
will place you closer to the fire." Rachel refilled the bowl with
wine and gave it to him. She looked at her daughter and said,
"Hang his robe by the fire so it will dry." Having executed
her mother's command, she returned and commenced looking at him
mercifully, as if she wanted to help him by pouring into his heart all
the warmth of her soul. Rachel brought two loaves of bread with some
preserves and dry fruits; she sat by him and began to feed him small
morsels, as a mother feeds her little child. At this time he felt
stronger and sat up on the hearth mat while the red flames of fire
reflected upon his sad face. His eyes brightened and he shook his head
slowly, saying, "Mercy and cruelty are both wrestling in the
human heart like the mad elements in the sky of this terrible night,
but mercy shall overcome cruelty because it is divine, and the terror
alone, of this night, shall pass away when daylight comes."
Silence prevailed for a minute and then he added with a whispering
voice, "A human hand drove me into desperation and a human hand
rescued me; how severe man is, and how merciful man is!" And
Rachel inquired, "How ventured you, brother, to leave the convent
on such a terrible night, when even the beasts do not venture
forth?"