Table of Contents

• Why I Love Apples - Bogachin Sahim
• Dice - Jonathan Queally

Why I Love Apples
[Top]

I used to keep watch for my twin brother, Ceyhan, when we were
small, when Ceyhan wanted to steal smoked meat from the cellar, but was
afraid of the eldest bride, our eldest brother's wife.  I guess I should
really call her my sister-in-law, but she's always been the eldest bride
for us.  She still knits me scarves every winter.  It's quite a collection
now.  I'm saddened to see how the years have left their traces on her
face.  But she's always been like that really, a hard woman, even back
then when she was still so young and beautiful.  In fact, she was quite a
tyrant.  Not like our mother, who was old and didn't care to engage in
household chores anymore and had entrusted her house and her husband to
the care of the eldest bride.
        So she caught us once in the cellar, the eldest bride.  It was
Sacrifice Festival.  In the dead of winter.  Carcasses hung from the
trees, steaming, and the village butcher went around skinning the
slaughtered animals in the snow.  The butcher was a stocky man.  Not like
our father, who was tall and wore boots and rode a horse.  Our father
knew how to slaughter animals, too, but he did it just once every year,
come Sacrifice Festival, when he would kneel down by the animals one by
one, the knife in his hand, and recite verses from the Quran and slit
their throats.  Then the blood would spray onto the snow and collect in
the pit, and he would dip his finger in it and mark the foreheads of his
sons, a charm against the evil eye.  I was brought to believe in things
like spells and charms, you see.  That's why I carry this on my neck now,
this black leather triangle on my necklace.  It's supposed to contain some
surah from the Quran.  My grandfather carried it on his neck whenever he
also carried a gun under his coat.  They say he used to be quite a bandit,
my grandfather.  He was ninety-six when he died, and still rode a horse,
and his gait was faster and more erect than some of his sons and
grandsons.  I was three or four when he died, so I don't remember him
much.  This is only a second-hand account.  I do remember that he had no
teeth in his mouth though, and liked to drink his tea black while he
chewed away on lumps of a sugary rock.  I guess they didn't have any
refined cane sugar in his day, so he never developed a taste for white
sugar in his tea.  They said he fell off his wall, three meters tall and
longer than the Great Wall of China.  He had been building it with his own
bare hands for ten years, to mark off his territory from what little land
the poorer farmers had to themselves after he and his elder sons had
appropriated most of it at gunpoint from many of the well-to-do villagers.
He fell on a pickaxe and the iron blade went right through his head.  He
must have died instantly.  It was an appropriate death for a man of his
dispositions, I suppose.  They didn't find the body until dusk.  The
eldest bride washed his body that night and kept this little charm to give
it to a deserving young man from our house one day.
        But the black smear on your forehead from the blood of a
sacrifice, that was really something else.  You have to carry it on your
forehead all day, till nightfall, and it dries on your skin and it's
really itchy, but you're not supposed to touch it.  Or else, the charm
won't work. That year, I think we were only starting grade school, Ceyhan
cried for one of the rams, and being the way I was back then, I teased him
for crying and called him girl's names under the linden tree while our
father was already tying up another ram's legs for the kill and Mother was
washing the knife and the eldest bride was still chopping away with a
hatchet at one of the animals the butcher had skinned and gutted, small
bits of meat clinging to her face.
        Mother put the knife down and scolded me for making fun of my
brother like that, and she washed her hands and took Ceyhan back to the
house, holding his hand all the way, to tell him the story of Abraham.  I
followed them secretly to the threshold of the kitchen, stepping lightly
on the wooden floorboards of the main hall, and knelt down by the edge of
the door frame.  You should really see this house. It's all wood, even the
nails.  My grandfather built it before my father was even conceived.
Anyway, as I went down on my knees, I noticed that a swarm of ants was
crawling out of a crevice in the wood.  I decided that if my mom caught me
spying on them, I would just tell her I was counting the ants.  I mustered
my courage and ventured a glance into the kitchen.  Ceyhan was sitting on
a goat-skin cushion by the hearth, a wool blanket over his shoulders, his
back slightly turned towards the door.  Mother brought him some goat's
milk from the stove.  Ceyhan was still crying.
        "Drink this," she said.
        "I don't like milk, mom."  Sob.
        "Drink it.  It's good for you.  Do it for my sake."
        "Can I put honey in it?"  Sob.
        "You stay where you are.  I'll take care of that."
        A little after she had struggled back to her feet with the glass
of milk in her hand and disappeared from my field of vision behind the
edge of the doorpost, I heard the dull tinkle of a metal spoon against the
sides of a glass.  It sounded like a boxwood ladel stirring flour soup in
an earth pot.  This must be one of the sweetest, most appetizing sounds
in the world. You can just tell it's full of calories, it's so thick.  She
had added the honey to the milk and was stirring it to a batter for
Ceyhan's taste.  When she appeared again, I quickly recoiled to my earlier
position to avoid her eyes.
        "Here, this should be better," she said.  "Now wipe your eyes and
I will tell you a story.  Do you like it?"
        "Yes, mom."
        "Do you want to listen to my story?"
        "Yes, mom."
        "It's a story from the Holy Book," Mother said, "about a man
called Abraham and his son Ishmael.  Are you listening?"
        "Yes, mom."
        "Good boy.  Go on, drink it all."  I could hear his gulps.  "Now
this Abraham was a prophet who lived a long, long time ago," continued
Mother, "much longer than you could imagine, before the time of Mohammed
and Jesus and Moses and David.  Do you recognize those names?"
        "Yes, mom," Ceyhan said.  I knew he didn't recognize any of them.
He never read the Book or the encyclopedia in Father's library, the one
about the prophets' lives.
        "Abraham lived and died before any of these prophets had even been
born," Mother said.  "He was a prophet himself, and he had a rich and
happy life, the ruler of his people and the shadow of God on earth, but
still his life was not without worry, for Abraham had no sons."
        That was a little hard to believe.  I mean, I had six brothers.
Everyone had brothers, and they had to be someone's sons.  But this poor
Abraham, he had never fathered a son.  How weird is that?  Something must
be wrong with him, I thought.
        "One day," continued Mother, "when Abraham had grown to be a very
old man bent under the load of years and still without a son in life, he
went out into the mountains without telling anyone.  And in the
wilderness, rocks for a bed at night and the sky for a blanket, he roamed
God's earth like a hermit and fasted for a month and prayed to God for
fertility.  He promised to sacrifice his child for the glory of heaven if
only God would give him a son.  And when the moon was full again in the
night sky, he returned to the comfort of his home.  Days passed.  Weeks.
Months.  And God granted Abraham his wish.  Within a year, his young wife
had born him a beautiful boy.  They named him Ishmael."
        "Did Father ever pray for sons?" Ceyhan asked.
        "No," my mother answered.  "God was gracious enough to bless us
with the seven of you without our prayers.  But listen to the story."
        "I'm listening," said Ceyhan.  By this time, I was dying to hear
it, too.
        "Years passed," Mother went on.  Ishmael grew up to become a
healthy, handsome youth, but every day multiplied Abraham's pain, for soon
he would have to take his own son's life and offer it to God for a
sacrifice, for such had been his promise when he had prayed in the
mountains.  One evening, Abraham knew he could bear it no more and decided
put an end to his suffering by fulfilling his pledge the next day.  He
went to the stable and saddled two mules for the morning's journey.  Then
he took out his whetstone from the cupboard in the kitchen and stayed up
all night, sharpening three of his choicest knives and praying to God,
until daybreak.
        "In the morning, Abraham placed the knives in a sack along with a
piece of linen to blindfold his son for the sacrifice and went into his
room to wake him up.  After they had each broken their fast with rich
goat's milk and honey, the prophet and his son mounted their mules and
rode out into the wilderness together.  Abraham told Ishmael that they
would only pray and worship God and offer sacrifices, and Ishmael believed
him.  When they were far enough so that nobody could see, Abraham climbed
down from his mule and helped his son do the same, holding him by his
waist.  Then he found a suitable rock and laid the unknowing child on it
and brought out the blindfold from his sack to cover his eyes, assuring
him that God would appear before them that day, and His eternal beauty was
so immense Abraham feared it could blind their human eyes.  And Ishmael
believed his father and lay there, on the rock, waiting for the knife and
not knowing it.  Then Abraham chose a knife, kissed his son's forehead one
last time, and pronounced God's name with longing, turning his tearful
eyes to the heavens as he held the knife to the sky, and reached down to
cut the child's throat with it.  But before the blade had touched
Ishmael's fair skin, Allah sent down a ram from heaven to replace Ishmael
on the rock and Abraham's knife never harmed his own seed.  If Allah hadnt
taken mercy and sent the ram, if Abraham had indeed taken Ishmael's life,
then your father would have to kill you and your brothers today, to
celebrate Abraham's blessed name and live up to his devotion to God.
Instead, we sacrifice the rams every year, one for each of you, to honor
Allah because He spared us our sons.  Does that make sense?"
        "So that's why?" Ceyhan asked.  He wasn't sobbing anymore.
        "Yes.  That is why," answered our mother.  She was well pleased
with herself.
        "And Father would have to kill me and my brothers if Allah hadn't
sent down the ram in time?" asked Ceyhan.
        "That's how the story goes," Mother answered.  "But Allah sent the
ram, so you should be grateful whenever you pray."
        "But why did Abraham think he had to kill his son?  Why didn't he
pray again?  God would surely forgive him if he did that."
        "Yes, but he had made a promise, so then it was Allah's command to
carry it out."
        "Then why did Allah send the ram?  Or why did He give Abraham the
son if He would take him back again for a sacrifice?  Or why did Abraham
pray for a son in the first place and promise to sacrifice him in the
end?"
        "Listen, Allah didn't _really_ want Abraham to kill his son.  He
just wanted to see how true Abraham was, after he prayed for a son in the
mountains."
        "Is Father true?"
        "What do you mean, is Father true?  Yes, he's an honest man.  He's
a good Muslim like he ought to be."
        "So would he kill me if Allah told him to?"
        "What kind of question is that?  God forbid!  I wouldn't let him."
        "But would he?"
        "Allah has other concerns.  Go wash your face and hands now, and
tell the bride to set the table.  And don't let me catch you crying for
your father's sacrifices again.  It's a sin."
        The story was over.  I sprang to my feet and ran down the steps
and found our father washing the blood from his hands under the linden
tree while the eldest bride poured hot water from the bronze ewer.
        "Father, would you kill me if Allah told you to?" I asked him.  I
was out of breath.
        "What?" he said.
        "Like Abraham the prophet.  Would you kill me like you kill these
rams?"
        "Hatice!" he yelled in the direction of the house.  What have you
been telling them again?"
 
        So it happened every year, the first day of Sacrifice Festival,
and every year I vaguely wondered when Allah would decide to see how true
my father was.  And after the story of Abraham and his son, Ceyhan never
cried for the rams again and I never made fun of him.  We watched Father
slaughter the animals one by one and wipe the knife on their wool, holding
their heads back by their horns to keep the blood flowing, spurting from
their throats while they kicked the dirt under him, the blindfold over
their eyes.  That winter, however, when Ceyhan cried and I teased him for
crying and our mother told him Abraham's story in the kitchen, I remember
most vividly of all.  Not just because of Ceyhan, or our mother, or
Abraham and Ishmael, but because of the apple crates in the cellar.
        It happened like this.  Father offered his sacrifices, and the
butcher skinned the animals as always, and Ceyhan cried, and our mother
told him the story of Abraham the Prophet, and the bride smoked the meat
and salted the skins and caught us twins in the cellar at night, feasting
on her day's labor.  Ceyhan was keeping watch as usual, but he noticed her
too late.
        Now I love apples.  But Ceyhan never really did, and I've always
thought it's because I got punished for our little crime that night and
Ceyhan was forgiven.  She was furious, the eldest bride, I could see it in
her eyes, but she never showed her anger, not even in her voice.  She told
Ceyhan to go upstairs and wait for her, so she could speak with me alone.
Ceyhan left.  It was almost dark in the cellar, save for the red glow of
the lantern the bride was holding in her hand and the little light that
trickled underneath the door at the top of the staircase, after Ceyhan had
pulled the door shut behind him and hadn't even looked back.  The bride
hung the lantern on the wall, and in the twilight of the cellar,  I could
barely make out her white silhouette pacing left and right before me on
the stone, holding her apron with one hand and her forehead with the
other, not looking at me.
        "You know why we smoke the meat?" she asked finally, her gaze
still on the ground.
        "No," I answered.
        She nodded, still pacing up and down on the cobblestone floor, now
lightly rubbing her arms for warmth.  She only had a white linen tunic on,
and her apron.
        "You know why we have lentil soup every morning for breakfast,
instead of honey and lamb?" she asked.
        "No," I said.
        Then she stopped her pacing and turned around to face me.  She
knelt down in front of me and held my shoulders.  "It's because your
father can no longer boast the rich house he inherited from his own
father," she said, tightening her grip on my shoulders, looking into my
eyes.  She had the greenest eyes in the world.  The distant flicker of the
lantern sparkled in them, making her look sad, like she was about to cry.
"It's because your father tore down the wall your grandfather died on,"
she continued, and he let the little people take what they could, plot
after plot, corn field after corn field, and reduce his land to the apple
orchard behind the house and what little earth we have to ourselves now,
by the edge of the wood.  You know why harvest doesnt take weeks like it
used to?  It's because your father still wears your grandfather's leather
boots, but his feet shrink in them every day and he shrinks with his feet,
so now he can't fill those boots like his father did.  And I smoke the
meat because this house can no longer keep the teeming sheep folds your
father and your uncles knew when they were your age, because your father
has to kill seven of his choicest rams for all seven of his beautiful sons
every year and give the meat away to the little people who plundered his
land, and to the butcher's wife because the butcher has to skin the
carcasses and your father won't touch them.  Soon, I'll have to smoke the
cheese to make it taste like meat, and your father won't know the
difference, and he will just keep on doing what he does, the eldest son of
Great Salih, the pasha of the house."
        Then, she let go of my shoulders and stood up and proceeded to
pronounce my sentence.  "You will sleep here tonight on the apple crates,"
she said, "and tomorrow night, and the night after, until you understand
what I've told you.  And I will count the apples in the morning and in the
evening, and if I find that one is missing, just one, you'll get three
more nights on the apple crates, until you understand what I've told you.
Now go wash your hands and your mouth, and pray to God so He may forgive
you.  I'll get you a blanket."  Then she left.
        So I slept on the apples for ten days, and never touched one of
them.  I had all the pastrami and sausage and smoked meat I could have
ever wished for, and I had my fill every night, but was always hungry.
One apple, just one apple, and I could have died in peace.  But I did not
touch a single one, and she never counted them.  And my first apple after
my fast?  She gave it to me with her own hands, and I've never tasted a
juicier apple in my life.  I let my teeth break the skin and sink into the
flesh on the cool inside, and crushed my bite against the roof of my
mouth, a burning sensation in the back of my throat, spreading through my
shoulders and my chest and my loins, as I allowed the sweetness to leak
into my center.  To this day, I'm still searching for a tastier specimen.
It seems that they don't make apples like they used to.  But I haven't
abandoned all hope yet.  That's why I eat three apples every day.  They're
good for you.

--Bogachin Sahim
 

Dice
[Top]
 

Your belts not working
old uncle Ed
Your jeans are sinking
down like lead.
Your hair is a mess
and your shirts untucked
you look like a man
who's damned his own luck.
But you're smiling Ed
and it's hard to tell why.
"You're rolled out on earth, boy,
live how you lie."

"Did you lose at the track
or fall short of even?
Did you go out and piss off
God or Saint Steven?"
We've asked you before
but you never answer.
"What's going on Ed,
are you dying of cancer?"
How can a man with such
a terrible look
smile and shine
like a meadow blue brook?

The town votes are in Mom;
your brother's bizarre.
He bikes around on a tenspeed
he swapped for his car.
The man in the grocery store
told me today
he saw Ed making straw hats
in the quarry with clay.
But I defend him each time
Mom, he's just Ed to me.
I remember my early years,
there on his knee.

You've said it before Ed,
or maybe it twice,
"If you live in a field, boy,
don't criticize mice."
You live in a condo
on Cape Woods Lane,
the grounds are kept nice
but your inside mundane.
Watercolors you painted hang,
or are they your wife's
who painted them lovingly
before leaving your life?

Those on the walls Ed
and books on the floor
your fridge hasn't worked
since nineteen-ninety four.
The dogs feed themselves
by ordering in.
You eat cold tuna with
a fork from a tin.
But you're smiling Ed,
and we're smiling back.
"Live for what you have, boy,
not what you lack."

--Jonathan Queally