The Mountain Lion

In the arid mountains of Lebanon, Leilah's cousin tells her the tale of the mountain lion.

“The mountain lion has red eyes, and he eats the chickens.”

That was what Zuhair told Leilah as he swung on a rusty old swing with chains that stretched taut, then jingled during descent, clanging together and making a fuss. The children took turns on the swing, trying to get themselves the highest they could, reaching out their arms to pluck grapes from the tangled vines above them.

Leilah wrinkled her freckled nose. “There’s no such thing.”

Her cousin did not reply. He just swung himself higher, reached out a thin arm, then yanked hard at the vines. They shook furiously from where they laid cozily entwined about the roofed garden terrace. Leaves fell and landed in Leilah’s knotted brown hair. She picked them out, and let them fall to the floor. Zuhair’s worn sneakers skidded rough against the ground, dust kicking up in his stride, and he held out his open palm with an air of triumph.

It was filled with shriveled leaves and plump, round grapes that looked like pale marbles in the moonlight. Leilah took one, and popped it in her mouth. She bit down, breaking the skin, and puckered her lips as the sour juice trickled over her tongue and down her throat.

“Give me a turn,” she spoke, starting to push her cousin off the swing.

But he shook his head. “We need to go inside, it’s dark.”

Leilah glanced at the chicken coop, out past the green steel gate of the garden where it sat nestled by some bushes. It looked eerie, bathed in the moonlight. Leilah found herself looking for red eyes.

She tore her gaze away from it, then followed her cousin inside. Their feet pattered along tiled halls, past two bedrooms filled with snores until they reached their own.

When they laid in their beds, placed side by side, Zuhair spoke again.

“Did you know that tarantulas crawl on ceilings? You can tell they’re there if you feel their hairs falling on you.”

“You’re a liar,” Leilah replied, though she quickly glanced at the ceiling, just to make sure. She thought she felt the light prickle of hairs tickling her cheek.

“You can hear the chickens scream when the mountain lion kills them. They sound like a hungry baby.”

The girl did not reply. She only listened, pulling the covers up to her chin. Her own heartbeat filled her ears, a rapid staccato. She found herself wishing her parents were here, rather than in the city busy with their work. They’d tell her not to worry- that her cousin just loved to tell tall tales. But they weren’t here- wouldn’t come to pick her up from her aunt’s mountain home until the week was over, and then she’d have to go back to school.

“My mom said we should never go past the chicken coop at night, or the mountain lion will get us,” Zuhair explained. “She said that he eats little kids.”

“She’s only trying to scare you,” Leilah replied, “so that you won’t go outside at night.”

“Nuh-uh. I’ve heard the chickens scream. If  you stay up late enough, you can hear it, too.”

“Majdoob,” the girl murmured, throwing her cousin a glare. “Stupid, that’s what you are.”

“Fine, don’t believe me,” Zuhair challenged, “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you get eaten alive.”

***

It was a clear and crisp Autumn day, and the mountain air tasted light and arid on Leilah’s tongue. She went exploring with Zuhair, hiking far into the mountains, where they happened upon a cluster of za’atar. The children picked the herbs, rubbed it in their palms, and smelled the spice. It settled in her nose, a sharp scent. Leilah put the crumpled herbs in her blouse pocket. Zuhair tossed his to the ground.

Just past the za’atar, they came across a small limestone cave.

“I bet this is where the mountain lion lives,” Zuhair chimed, nearly giddy with his discovery, walking towards the gaping mouth of it.

Keeping back, Leilah felt her stomach twist into knots. She turned to leave her cousin behind, then spotted something in the corner of her eye. A dirty white plastic bag peeking from beneath dried leaves and twigs. She inched towards it, picked up a branch, and used it to prod the bag open.

It was filled with odd tools- a wrench, pliers, tape, a hammer, some rope.

A grimy switchblade.

Leilah glanced at her cousin, who was investigating around the cave, but not quite in it. Even he seemed hesitant, like he knew he was doing something he probably shouldn’t. If he saw the bag, he’d want to figure out who it belonged to, and they’d both get in trouble. So she covered it with her branch, and then the leaves.

“I want to go back,” Leilah called to Zuhair.

He turned to look at her, found his opportunity, and smiled- a nasty, mean thing.

“Are you scared?”

“Eskot, shut up. I’m hungry. Let’s go pick grapes.”

Zuhair didn’t need much convincing, eager to put distance between himself and the foreboding cave. But he taunted her further. “Chicken- you really are chicken, and you’re going to get eaten up.”

They went home, and Leilah looked back only once.

***

The children were greeted with their neighbor, Miss Shehadi, sitting at their kitchen table. She was hunched over, hands white-knuckled and covering her face, sobbing. Leilah watched as her aunt, uncle, and the housemaid comforted the woman. Then her aunt spotted the dirty children, and took them aside, hands grabbing their arms tight. Her nails pinched into their suntanned skin.

When they were in the next room, she spoke. “You two are not to go past the chicken coop, anymore. Not under any time of the day. Tafahhum? Do you understand?”

The children nodded.

They heard Miss Shehadi’s sobs echo through the corridor as they walked to their room.

***

“I don’t know why Miss Shehadi was so upset,” Leilah murmured as they prepared to sleep that night, laying out their thin blue quilts on their beds. “They’re only chickens.”

“Not chickens- I bet the mountain lion took her son. I bet it ate him whole,” Zuhair stated in a matter-of-fact way.

“Khalas, enough. You always talk garbage,” Leilah spat out before lying down.

But she listened for the chickens as she fell asleep.

Only a few hours into the night, her cousin woke her up.

“Listen,” he spoke. She did. A shrill crying sound, like that of a baby, resonated in the night. “The chickens,” her cousin insisted.

Leilah’s heart froze cold- colder than the night air. Then it thumped hard. She did nothing but listen to the odd noise. It did not sound like chickens.

“Let’s go look,” Zuhair insisted, running out the room, not waiting up for her. Leilah hopped out of bed, her bare feet meeting cold tiles, and she ran after her cousin.

“Wait!” she whispered harshly as he went to the back door that led to the garden. “Stop, this isn’t a good idea.”

“Then don’t follow me,” her cousin replied.

She followed him, anyways.

The night was frigid, and it hit Leilah like a slap to the face. She wrapped her arms around herself, trailing behind her cousin, past the metal gate, and out to the chicken coop.

The noise grew louder. Leilah paused in her stride, but Zuhair did not. Up close, she was certain the sound was not chickens.

Her suspicions were proven true when they reached the birds to find them all snoozing peacefully, heads tucked into big, feathered breasts.

Zuhair looked disappointed. “Where is it? Where is the mountain lion?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go--”

A loud guttural noise sounded just a few feet away. It froze Leilah in her spot.

It sounded again, closer.

Red eyes, and her cousin was on the floor- had he fallen asleep?

The smell of za’atar filled her nostrils, a spiced smell that woke her in her sudden dream-like trance.

Those horrible, red eyes looked into her own for a long time. She didn’t move- didn’t breathe.

Her cousin, still sleeping sound, was dragged slowly through the dry mountain underbrush, past the chicken coop. Loose feathers clung to his pajama bottoms.

All the while, the red eyes never looked away from her, seeming almost amused, and they shared a look of understanding.

Nodding, Leilah released the breath she had been holding, and looked down at her feet. Blood spattered them- had she cut herself? A hammer laid at her feet, with something slick coating the blunt head.

She went to bed, and she did not dare look back.

***

This time, it was Leilah’s aunt sobbing at the dining table, face buried in her palms. Her husband and neighbors from other houses, but not Miss Shehadi, consoled her, their faces grim with shock.

While the adults were distracted, Leilah snuck out past the door, walked beyond the grape vines, through the gate, and just a few feet from the chicken coop. She saw it, again. The hammer, left just how it was- a present for her from the mountain lion.

She picked it up, looked at it. She turned it in her hands.

“Leilah! What are you doing? I thought I told you not to go past--”

Her aunt froze, eyes wide, a look of horror twisting her face as she gazed down at the hammer in the girl’s hands.

“What is that? Where did you find that?”

The girl blinked and handed the hammer to her aunt. She didn’t take it- just stared at it with red-rimmed eyes that were large and round, bigger than plump, sour grapes. The girl took it back, looked at it, then up at her aunt.

“The mountain lion left it. He left it here last night, when he took Zuhair away.”

Her aunt gazed at the hammer in the girl’s hands. Her mouth quivered as it hung open, and her grape eyes never moved- did not even shift. “Lion?”

“Yes. The mountain lion with the red eyes. The one that eats the chickens.”