The Myrtle Tree

I was on my knees in the olive grove gathering the new olives, called jerjar, when the sudden squawk of a blackbird startled me. I looked up. It was young Zahi. His slender body skittered down the rough trail between the terraces, breaking through the dappled sunlight. He landed near me with a thud and crouched, panting, “Adam, your uncle wants you right away. There’s an officer with him.”The word ‘officer’ was reverent in his mouth. His eyes were shining, not with the excitement that sparkles off him when he leads his pack during football games, but with the darker dazzle of the civil war. He was the younger son of our next door neighbour and village shopkeeper, Abu Faour. I’d known and liked him since he was born. But today his demeanour was...