As the children grew, Abouna Antonius sought out the best marriages for each child. He arranged a match for each one into a different branch of the village families to preserve the purity of their bloodline. Soon, the patriarch headed a large family consisting of members from all the best families in Hardine: Assaf, Sahd, Roman, Oblen, Monsur, Kassab, and Deeb.

 

Villagers referred to Abouna Tabet and his descendants as the House of Priests (Beith el Khouri) because several of his sons and grandsons became priests. Many of the women descendants entered the religious orders that had grown out of the followers of Saint Anthony the Hermit. The families flourished, as they grew larger with each generation. They followed the teachings of Maron the Monk. His monks had Christianized Lebanon, built villages and terraced the mountainous terrains where people could farm and raise their goats and other livestock.

 

* * * * *

 

One of Abouna Antonius Tabet’s great-grandsons, eighteen-year-old Assaf Khoury, walked the two kilometers south of the village to Fahilda, a tiny open-air restaurant. When he walked into the courtyard, all eyes turned toward him. Several giggling girls ran to him, desiring him to choose her as his dancing partner—or more—that night. The buzz around the village all day was that this handsome young man was planning to choose his life-long mate tonight. “Let it be me,” the eyes of the five attractive teens fluttered tempting him.

 

He smiled at them, but instead of talking to any of them, he turned toward the waiter. He raised his finger signaling the server for a glass of Arak. The aged man called Uhmu, or uncle, as a sign of respect for his ninety-plus years, shuffled over to Assaf carrying a glass of clear liquid and a carafe of water to dilute the fiery spirit.

 

“Satine, Assaf.” Francois clinked glasses with his brother-in-law, standing next to him at the wooden bar.

 

Assaf saluted those gathered for the evening’s festivities. A group of men sat in a circle talking and smoking their nargiles or hookahs, the centuries old water pipes filled with rich Turkish tobacco. The men had pipes made from lead, brass, or wood depending upon the wealth of the owner.

 

It was not only the men who enjoyed the sometimes dizzying effect of the pip. Several women sat together laughing and telling stories also smoked their daintier pipes. They had hookahs made from brightly colored ceramics or delicately blown glass. One wealthy matron had an exquisite bowl made from silver that her grandfather had willed to her when he died.

 

The pungent aroma of the tobacco would have been overpowering if the men were smoking in an enclosed area. In this open air setting, the fragrance of night-blooming Jasmine, lilies, wild flowers, spices and the strong balsamic odor of the nearby grove of cedars offset the tobacco scent.

 

Despite the music, Assaf could still hear the bubbling sound emanating from the pipes. It was this sound, Assaf thought, that made the circles of smokers draw closer together so they could talk and be heard over the sound of the boiling hot water that filtered the tobacco.

 

Turning toward the women dancing in the circle of the courtyard, Assaf raised his glass in appreciation of the swaying beauties’ grace and charm. They moved their arms in a fluid, intricate pattern while they swiveled their seductive hips. The dancers mesmerized him much as did the cobras in the baskets at the open air market, called the Souq.

 

Assaf was striking. Three inches taller than his friends, he was, by far, the most desirable man in the village. His friends admired Assaf not only for his handsome features, but also because he had inherited the family farm after his father’s premature death several months earlier. His friends were not envious that he displayed the characteristics of his French ancestors, those who stayed after the Crusaders withdrew their forces. The Crusaders left behind not only their French culture and language but also legions of women with large bellies holding the Crusaders’ offspring. Nor did they begrudge him his new status as a landowner in the village, because he always treated them with respect and gave them work if they needed it. He never made them feel inferior. He helped them, and the way he worked so hard was an inspiration to all of them. They didn’t even blink when their dance partners tried to lure him into paying attention to them. They all knew he had eyes only for one person.

 

In their eyes, although Assaf was only eighteen, he was mature beyond his years. A parent’s death and being responsible for running the farm did that to a young man.

 

Everyone in the village adopted this young man who had eyes that, to them, seemed deeper than the water in the village well. Yet, when the sun glistened in his eyes they seemed to melt into puddles of dark chocolate that revealed an air of friendliness. It was all the elderly women could do to keep themselves from running their fingers through his thick, curly dark hair, maybe remembering the time their husbands had hair like him. He was the son they all desired—hard working, devout, humorous, self-confident and a natural leader.

 

Assaf knew all eyes were on him. It didn’t bother him at all. He stroked his mustache coiled under the nose that was almost straight compared to the parrot-like beaks of the other men in his village. He curled his lean, muscular body down and draped himself over one of the numerous piles of hand-loomed carpets. Monsur placed colorful rugs and thick pillows on the ground each night to create a warm, dry seating area. Inside the rug perimeter, the dancers moved rhythmically in a circle made of dirt stomped-down over the ages into a compacted dance floor.

 

The four musicians came from three generations of cousins belonging to the Roman family. Uncle Tunoose had played his hand-carved reed flute here for more than thirty years. Grandfather Abdenour plucked and bowed his pear-shaped oud with as little effort as a much younger man. His fingering was so brilliant that the highest notes sang with such sweetness that they could have charmed the Sirens off their rocks to drown in the sea alongside the enchanted sailors. Seventeen-year-old Cecelia Roman played the tambourine. Her brother Yoseph, though only fifteen, added the rhythm with skill and dexterity. It appeared as if he had beaten the darbuka for countless years. Between his legs, he held the goblet-shaped hand drum, handed down from father to son for generations. This position allowed him to hit the drum’s center with force for strong beats and strike its edge for the sharp in-between beats.

 

Assaf diluted the potent Arak with a dash of water. Monsur, Fahilda’s owner, made the Arak using the green cow’s nipple grapes from his own vineyard. Assaf watched the clear liquor turn milky white. “Satine,” he said to the musicians. He raised his glass to salute them, and then drank it all in one seamless motion. Assaf smacked his lips in approval as the anise-flavored drink rolled around his tongue and created a burning sensation as it slid down his throat. “The milk of lions” his ancestors had called it. Assaf saluted the distiller. “This is the best batch you ever made.” Assaf bowed to master distiller Monsur.

 

“You say that every time,” Monsur laughed.

 

“And every time, it’s true,” Assaf affirmed. As was the custom, Assaf took a clean glass and began the ritual again. No one wanted to put the clear liquor into a glass that had already contained water. They wanted each experience to be as pure as the previous one. Assaf poured a small bit of water into the clear liquid. Again, it turned milky white.

 

“Satine,” Assaf said again and raised his glass before downing the wonderful homemade brew.

 

“Satine. Allah be praised,” the elder musicians responded, also downing their clear, undiluted Arak in one shot.

 

* * * * *

 

Assaf had eyes only for the youngest dancer, Marya. She swirled past him. Graceful. Enchanting. He couldn’t turn his eyes from her. Today, on her thirteenth birthday, she became an adult. He wanted to join her, but he took such pleasure watching her slim, supple body that he sat back satisfied to salute her each time she twirled past. Because his parents were both dead, he didn’t have to deal with the drawbacks of a traditional arranged marriage. Moreover, the farm provided sufficient income to support him and a wife.

 

As the moon rose higher in the sky and changed from orange to pale yellow, three more musicians added their talents and energy to the celebration. The young men took up their darbukas, stretched taut by the hot embers of the fire and beat out the rhythm of the songs and dances. Four skilled men plucking ancient lute-like ouds picked up the melody. The seven musicians played a variety of music to entertain the villagers.

 

Deeb, the Elder—so called to differentiate him from his son, Deeb, the Younger—clapped his hands in an upbeat, festive manner. Deeb’s trilling ululation lured the villagers from their positions of contentment and followed him into the circle. The exuberant villagers formed a circuitous line that snaked between the tables. Deeb jumped to the front of the line. The Elder, the best dance leader in the North Lebanon Mountains, led them through the dance steps that increased in intricacy as the Dabke became more intense.

 

Assaf, eyes glowing with desire, watched Marya’s graceful arms move like the wings of a skylark gliding on a gentle breeze. Her agile body moved with as much grace and skill as an ibis slipping smoothly into the moon-reflected sea to catch his dinner for the night. Moonlight shimmered from her thick, dark locks that cascaded down her back to her tiny waist. Small strands of ebony curls broke loose from the golden ribbon that shined like a halo around her flawless face. Ringlets clung to her moist face. The moon paled when compared to the aura that emanated from the child’s glowing skin. Her laughter filled the hills and valleys below.

 

Assaf could no longer sit and watch this angelic gift from God. Marya filled Assaf’s heart with too much love for him to remain on the fringe, apart from her. He leaped from his seat into the circle of dancers and took his place by Marya’s side. He led her into the center of the dancers. Assaf danced as he had never danced before. He gave in to the passion of the music. His body swayed in harmony with hers. He could focus on nothing but her eyes, shining with love. He prayed that her love for him was as deep and everlasting as his was for her.

 

Assaf could not distinguish the throbbing of the darbukas from his frenzied heartbeat. He had never experienced such joy, such love. The frenetic drums of the Dabke music ended, replaced by a single oud strumming a gentle, seductive melody. Additional lutes joined in to produce harmonies of a haunting love song.

 

Assaf fell to his knees and chanted Miserlou in his rich baritone voice:

"Thi . . la wee . lek . fee . . neh roi . . yeh hah feen…”

 

Marya began the sensual dance reserved for betrothal ceremonies. No man sang such a song to a young woman unless he planned to wed her for life. Nor did a woman dare dance to this song unless she was ready to accept the young man’s pledge of perpetual love.

 

Assaf held out his hand to offer Marya his eternal love. Thunderous applause erupted. The ovation, approval of their union, followed the young lovers as they slipped into the shadows of the night to pledge themselves to one another.