Death of Cedar
Maya Aghasi
In the square, men, everywhere, smoking أركيلة ,i playing طَّاوِلة,ii and fingering مساحب.iii Men leaning against front doors that line cobbled roads, younger ones perch on protruding balconies of yellow-stoned houses, others linger aimlessly between vegetable carts. Fruit sheds made of brown and beige striped cloth veil rainbow-colored life seducing from inside. Entangled amidst the men and piled vegetable carts, a jagged blue rectangle appears, Bcharré marked on it in faded white paint. Underneath, a faded white arrow, its head pointing to the right. Turning right, the bustling of the village fades, the roads progressively become narrower and more winding, and, unexpectedly, downhill, away from the mountain. A man in a dusty شروال iv twirling his thinning moustache stands legs wide apart. "ياعتيك العافية يا عم. علّ أرْز كيف؟"v
His eyebrows knit as he rubs his lower belly,
"يا بِنتي، بِدّيك تِرِعجي لَوَرى، هَوْدي بعد بشَرّي. إنتي وصَلي عَلى النَبِعْ بِبِشَرّي وهَونيك بَدِّك تَخدي الشمال." vi
But it pointed to the right. "الآرمة كانِت عم بِت دِل الى اليمين."
The old man laughs, "هَوْدي آلولاد عَمْ يِلعَبوا!" With pursed lips breaking into a smile, "خَلّيلي ياك يا عَم"vii
U-turn. The roads lead back to those blue signs, yes, next to the spring, yes, indicating the right: turn left.
Souvenir shops litter both sides of the narrow roads, blond people in shorts, T-shirts, and sandals browse the collections. Others covered from head to toe in black sheets load plastic bags with wooden key-rings, “Welcome to Our Home” wood plaques, crocheted tablecloths, and artisanat handiwork. "مَعَك صْرافت مِيّة يا جان؟"viii the old seller yells across the street. Jean is busy. He is trying to get the blond woman with a camera swinging from her wrist to buy the tree-shaped key-ring. It has a خَرزة زرقاءix dangling from it, “we cun boot za word you want, yor name on… here” Jean tries, rolling his r’s and pointing to the surface of the object. Distracted, he flips his head sideways, "دولار أم لبناني يا معَلّمِ جوزيف؟"x. The lady drifts to another rack.
The forest is fenced off by thick brown rope linked and separated by stubs of wood, about a foot high. A white but yellow brick cubicle with metal grafted roofing is set up next to a little tree; a dark brown bark with dark green fur for leaves, its summit barely scraping the knee. Curious: “was just planted?” The young face in the window erupts in giggles, revealing metal wires and beautiful dimples complementing her shining black eyes. Cringing a freckled, hooked nose and pulling thick coal-black curls into a loose bun, she responds, “That little sapling there is actually about twenty-five years old!” chewing her words, swallowing her syllables. She tries to secure the stray curl tickling her forehead behind her right ear, it bounces back with a playful vengeance. Wow! So those? pointing over the cubicle toward the sky… “Thousands and thousands of years old!” she interrupts with excitement. The vibes of her excitement are contagious. دخولية؟xi. “We don’t charge, but we accept donations of about five-thou, you know, to preserve the symbol and beauty of Lebanon! For maintenance, you know…” she answers in English. Her voice trails off as cash is pulled out.
Kicking off my sandals to feel the dark brown sand, or soil. It is soft and dry here, but damp in other areas. Tooth-pick thin fallen twigs urgently poke my skin. I pick one up to play with as I walk. A set path is built to track between the trees, and, learning from my mistakes, I dare to traverse the rope that marks its borders. “Um, we’d rather you stay on the path, um, to preserve the beautiful ancient forest, you know’’ quivers the urgent accent from behind. I smile back at the curly-haired girl. Continuing to finger the hair-thin piece of wood, I walk on the constructed path, pebbles piercing my soles. I try to ignore them, and focus on the trees rather than the pain under my feet. Look directly above: so many branches amidst dark-green fur, countless ones, light seeping in between… but a red circle encloses them. Drowsiness. Straightening my head, I continue walking up the path, eyes focused ahead, trees only decorating the panorama of vision. With each step, the soil between my toes is colder, drier.
A boulder of a branch discredits the path. It looks almost artificial, a perfect dark-brown rectangular shape over which protrudes a miniature tree, a green triangle divided with two equidistant gaps. Nervousness tries to snap the twig between my fingers, but it pierces them, and pain releases it to the earth. The size is intimidating. Respectfully, eyes to the ground. Furtively, roll them up: the ridges in the cracked bark make endless intersections with one another. Quickly look back down on the ground; it is orange here, and there is the twig. Slowly again, trace the paths in the bark upward from the ground. They are all connected to one another, and they are separate and distinct, unique, each with its own nooks and irregularities. Get closer and see each braid that threads into the side of this boulder… The thick scent of the wood seeps out. It is intoxicating. With eyes furiously rubbing against their lids, head resting against the bark’s immensity, feel the tree engrave its lifelines into my forehead. I suffer each one distinctly, slowly, deep inside. I cannot read them. One cannot read them. My hands push me away from the bark. Regain balance. Trying to climb onto the tree my hands slip and both arms scrape against the ridges of the boulder. A burning sensation rushes and takes over. Blood trickles to the ground.
With less-focus, watery eyes, and one leap, my legs sway at the tree’s side. Heels rub against the fallen tree. I look down at the bark and smile. Placing my hands by my sides on the bark, I push down hard and I am floating. I sit back down and investigate the marks in my palms. They are shapes, ripples in water, labyrinths, secret maps to unknown places. My skin levels, so, again, I press down with my palms against the dead tree and my head tips back. The calligraphy green of the trees above embedded in the yellow light seduces… dizziness hits. I straighten my neck, and I close my eyes to regain my equilibrium. The blood on my arms burns.
“They’re not allowed to chop down the trees or the branches!” My heart pounces to my throat, my eyes burst open. “Because it takes forever for these trees to grow. Otherwise, they would be extinct, you know,” the young girl with the accent brings me back with information. My eyes shut tightly, reproducing the ridges of the bark on my face. Then ironing them out, my eyes open. “The souvenir shop owners use branches such as the one you’re sitting on, ones that have fallen naturally, to make the souvenirs. These usually fall because of the snow and heavy winds of the winter. You forgot your sandals at the front,” she offers on her arm two black sandals hanging from her fingers. “Thanks,’’ I smile. I take a look at the thicker end of the branch I am sitting on—a clean, smooth surface marks where the branch had fallen. Nodding in thanks, I take the sandals and hop over to the other side and continue along the trail.
The end of the path is on top of the mountain, on the edge of a cliff. It too is contoured with rope. There is a wooden structure made with fallen branches. A peaceful face with a twig crown is engraved on its side. The twigs still pierce my feet, punishing me for interrupting their rest, prickling my heels, toes, and every part of my soles.
Behind me, the cliff, I admire the forest just traversed. Looking to the ground, there is not a root in sight. The trees are stable and firm, dwelling in the cold damp mountain for thousands of years, with no need to flaunt history or descent. And then I turn to look over the edge of the mountain, but here there is no ground. Only infinite shades of brown growing into competing hues of red then green then yellow. Long thick barks towering the sun, tangled flat, hairy sheets of green drift across the horizon, countless needles of emerald playfully tickle the air, filtered rays of dark red and ginger tease through. The pinkish back-drop of the jade life peeps through to illuminate the magic of the place. Vertigo… I keep my eyes open and feel the groundless wonder.
هَيْدي هِيّه، شَجَرة الأرز. بَسّ الشجرة. الأرز. xii