Under the Olive Tree

Prologue

Once upon a time, a young boy helped his father care for their garden. It was a marvelous collection of olive trees planted by their grandest of fathers. A single tree easily provided enough olives, leaves, and oils for an entire neighborhood. The boy took pride in working alongside his father. Though he believed it his duty as the eldest son, he enjoyed attending to each new olive that sprouted beneath the warm sun for there were many that felt like his own creations. Perhaps it was his father's joyous praises, proud smiles, and fond embraces that made him appreciate work in the olive garden, for the boy found he would be content standing in the green field alongside his father for as long as he may live.

But "once upon a time" is a fairytale, and this story has no happy ending.

On the third Friday of the third month of the year, the boy sat beneath the afternoon sun wearing his father's borrowed cap. The boulder was cool against his back as he counted the olive leaves they had carefully picked earlier that day. He was only beginning his fourth stack when his father called from amidst the trees, his voice loud and powerful as he requested water. So, the boy rose and rushed into the horse stable. He filled the tin cup from the iron pump and took a sip of the groundwater to feel it race down his parched throat in all its cold delight. Then, as he turned around, he saw the door pull to a firm close.

"Yaba?" He called to his father.

His father responded. "Stay quiet, my son."

Beside him, the young horse lifted its head from rest. The boy met its gaze in shared confusion, both pondering why they'd become trapped.

Then, from past the wooden door and through the aged cracks that allowed the sun to decorate the mud-pasted walls, the boy heard voices not his father's. He placed the cup down and hurried to climb the cauldron by the window for he was too short to see on his own two feet. The voices had become louder by the time his eyes met the sunlight.

Four men stood in front of his father and spoke his tongue with an accent unlike he'd heard before. He studied the way they stood fearlessly in their green uniforms and charcoal helmets. They wore unusual clothing but he understood that everyone should dress. It was the large, strangely shaped sticks they held across their chests that baffled him.

He ducked away when one man's gaze nearly caught his.

Father would be disappointed that he did not listen.

But Father was not disappointed, he was angry. He could be heard shouting something before another then another shout and another. He peeked out to see their newly growing olive tree torn from the ground and thrown. It slammed the shudders shut and the boy fell on his bottom.

The horse huffed its warm breath onto his arm and he shushed it.

He crawled to the door and peeked through a small pore where the wood had split apart to see all the men growing more upset. When one of the men reached for the branches of another tree, his father tore the man's hands away. The other raised his voice, it was hard and bellowing like a cow, and held his stick higher. But Father only shouted louder and stepped forward until his chest pressed into the stick.

The boy felt proud.

He would never forget that pride, but it slipped from his mind when his father fell, pushed back by the other men. The boy gasped as they tore another olive branch, throwing it to the floor, and stepping their foot in its center until it cracked. He waited for his father to rise again and fight them, but he didn't.

He remained on the floor.

"Yaba," he called out, keeping his voice hushed.

But his father remained still. His eyes were wide as if it was his first time observing the blueness of the sky and the fluff of the clouds. As if he were in awe of its beauty. Then, beneath the length of his father's brown hair, the boy saw red and he gasped.

Blood.

He pushed the door. "Yaba."

It didn't budge and the sealed lock on the outside jingled. He pushed against it harder and, though he was small, he pushed all his weight into the wood. It blistered but gave no way for his exit. "Yaba!" He shouted until he was sure everyone heard. "Yaba!"

His father bled.

The trees fell.

And the lock never gave way.

_____________

This story is a romance. HOWEVER, it surrounds real-world problems and has a more serious side to it than my other works. I have been working very hard on it. If you want to enjoy a romance and learn about world issues that the media blocks from our attention, continue reading. If you want an easy, simple love story, I recommend you find it somewhere else.

WARNING: violence, blood, death, and injustice.