And Then There Shall Be Rain

by Sophia-Maria Nicolopoulos

part 1

Drip drop, drip drop. Tracing the route of the thick rain droplets on the window, Khalilah imagined her best friend’s face: those big, caring hazel eyes and her sweet, sweet smile. A day before she went missing, they had agreed they’d leave Greece to study together in Italy. Yara would write comic books, and Khalilah would sketch for her.

Now, Yara was another girl gone missing in Athens. The Syrian man in front of her kept talking about her disappearance as if her friend weren’t part of their communal life in this deserted hotel anymore, as if Yara weren’t a human being fleeing war. He just stated facts, his angular face strict and blank, his eyes shining black.

Drip drop, drip drop. Not so long ago, Khalilah loved the rain. Damascus had been stricken by a fair number of droughts over the last decade, but water in Greece was bountiful. Surrounded by the sea and with frequent rainy seasons, this new country had it in abundance. But at what cost?

Khalilah watched the water stream down the glass, and her mind galloped back to the thousands of stranded lifeboats, of children screaming in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

Water had taken her daddy away from her. Water reminded her of how she had been torn from her roots. And now, water was what made Yara’s search so difficult.

Fatima, her mother’s sister, her only living khala, elbowed her. “Khalilah? Are you here? Do you think he did it?” she whispered.

She shivered. Fatima’s mind had always been prone to fantasies, but believing a monster would claim the lives of innocent girls was... ridiculous. “It’s a children’s story, khala!” Khalilah whispered back, almost convinced that the old woman had finally lost it. She wouldn’t hear it again. She couldn’t. But Fatima pressed on.

“Everyone’s talking about him, you know. Abu Kees. He comes for Syrian children at night and shoves them in his sack. It’s true, we brought him with us across the sea, like all our legends, but he changed.” Fatima sighed and rubbed her eyes. “We’re dying here and we’re angry. Frustrated. The hatred towards us and our self-pity are what keep him alive. To survive, he’s becoming part of this land, too. This is why he steals our young, to get stronger.”

By the time Fatima’s whispers died down, the dark-haired man finished his speech. Both left Khalilah numb. Not because he had requested all girls report their whereabouts before they went out. Not because she was to be escorted when walking downtown. But because, deep down, an inkling tore her heart apart, an inkling she had refused to acknowledge for days. But Yara’s disappearance had changed things, and Fatima could be right.

Ya Allah, she had brought Abu Kees, too, from her hometown.

Despite Fatima’s protests, Khalilah raced back to the living room, crammed with sleeping bags and stained bed sheets. She needed to get the drawing journal from her backpack.

* * *

“Why jasmines?” she asks her mom before they flee.

“They’re part of who you are. Part of Syrian soil. And they remind me of you in their humble beauty and white, lobed petals. You can be quite opinionated, but you’re modest and always keep your head on your shoulders. We’re so proud of you, benty.” Her Mom hugs her then, her long black abaya smelling of all the flowers she’d been working on her last day in the florist shop. Live moss, floral foam, lavender, and a touch of lilies.

Tears escape from Khalilah’s eyes. They will leave soon.

“But why are you giving me these now? We’ll be together on that journey. We’ll be together forever, right?” Her voice breaks down.

Her Mom shushes her. “Yes, we will. We have so much room in our hearts for each other. These are for protection and remembrance. Remember who you are. Always.”

* * *

Khalilah shoved the seeds in the pocket of her brown backpack with her right hand, swiping away her tears with the left. Her Mom had prophesized her own death, she knew that now. She had sensed she and Dad wouldn’t survive, that’s why he handed Khalilah her favorite type of flower. Jasmines stood for eternal love and modesty. Jasmines warded off evil energy. That’s what her mom had taught her.

But it was not the time to reminisce about faded flower dreams. It was time she witnessed her version of Abu Kees, drawn on the last page of her cherished sketchbook, her dad’s last gift. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Khalilah had told her family she’d study in the School of Fine Arts, when her dad searched all around Damascus for a perfectly bound sketchbook with the highest-quality sheets she had ever touched. “The most expensive gift for my only benty,” he had told her.

Fatima told her that Abu Kees was “what we brought with us, across the sea, like our legends, but he changed.” She hadn’t stopped to think how she held onto this myth while girls her age and heritage went missing these past few days, how she had sketched him one night in Athens, on Panepistimiou Street, famished, homeless and on the run, hunted down by the police. Her Mom had it worse; she was dying of pneumonia and had no medicine or a warm place to get some rest.

Khalilah shivered. It was her fear of being alone, abandoned and derided in this new land that had sustained him.

She perused her greyscale sketches: moments of her life before the war, bouquets of flowers falling from the sky over Marjeh Square, Dad’s slouched posture next to the Umayyad Mosque, cordially smiling, holding little Khalilah up to his chest.

Now is not the time for sentimentalism, Khalilah.

With her heart caught in her throat, she stopped on the last page and gasped. There he was, standing out from the beige-colored page, between the Catholic Church of Saint Dionysus and the Library of Athens, terrifying and majestic, the monster Khalilah had called the “Smog Man,” the entity inspired by the Abu Kees stories she’d heard as a kid, now a product of her imagination unleashed on the streets of Athens.

He was tall, extremely so; eyes dark like the starless sky on all those nights she had spent on the sea, crammed in a boat. His teeth, full of fungi and lifeboats, reminded Khalilah of her drowning nightmares. Fishhooks hung from his fingers where nails should have been. The most horrifying of all, though, was his enormous belly in the shape of a sack, transparent to show the body parts of all the dismembered children stuck inside.

Khalilah held back a scream. She stared at the page, too afraid to close the journal, too anxious to look away. If Fatima’s concerns were true, she was guilty. She had brought Abu Kees to this foreign land. She had etched him onto a page. She had breathed life into the monster that took Yara from her.

Stop it, Khalil. You’re not making any sense.

If Abu Kees was real, perhaps Khalilah could lure him out and ask him why he was taking the girls and where he was keeping them. She could threaten to tear her drawing into pieces, destroy his image and bury him into oblivion as she might do to many other legends from her land, now that it doesn’t exist. If he were forgotten, he’d lose his power. That is her only chance.

Or perhaps this was no boogeyman at all. Maybe it was another stranger who hated the color of her skin, the God she believed in, and the language she spoke. Someone who targeted young girls out of pure hatred and spite, taking his anger out on the innocent, exacting revenge for a crime they had never committed. It wouldn’t be the first time she was threatened by men coming after her in this city because of who she was. She was a xénos in this new country and carried a stench she would never be able to get rid of, no matter where she went.

Stupid, so stupid.

Khalilah was willing to offer herself as prey to Abu Kees whether he was real or not. It was her duty to her friend to investigate if Fatima’s tall tales held any truth. After all, what other choice did she have? What else was there but hope that she’d see Yara again?

Something eerie was going on and, despite the mysterious circumstances surrounding Yara’s abduction, Khalilah knew that if she was the reason a monster had taken her best friend’s life, she would willingly pay the price and sacrifice herself to save her.

Stupid plan, reckless plan.

Khalilah could no longer stay in that filthy room that smelled of piss and sweat. She had to fight for her best friend.

She put on her wind-whipped raincoat and secured her dark blue hijab tightly on her head before grabbing her backpack — the seeds and journal safely tucked inside — and left the room. Fatima stopped her in her tracks as she was climbing down the stairs She was not alone. Three other Syrian women were huddled behind her, rapidly whispering in hushed tones.

“Habibti.” Fatima approached her, worry written all over her face. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t have time to explain. I’ll be back soon.” Khalilah tried to walk around her khala, but she was faster and gripped her arm tightly.

“Don’t go after him, Khalilah. Only death follows him,” she whispered.

“I owe this to my parents and all those people that were lost while coming to this new land. I owe it to Yara. Let me go, Fatima!” Khalilah yanked herself free and ran down the stairs towards the heavy wooden door on the ground floor.

Fatima started praying loudly as Khalilah opened the door, sending after her the dua her parents used to say every time Khalilah left the house: “Bismillaahi, tawakkaltu ‘alallaahi, wa laa hawla wa laa quwwata illaa billaah.” In the Name of Allah, I have placed my trust in Allah; there is no might and no power except by Allah.

Her parents always told her that this was how an angel guided, defended, and protected her. A sob escaped from Khalilah’s lips, the memory of their voices gripping her heart.

If only she were to find an angel instead of a monster stealing children in the dead of the night.

* * *

Heavy water fell on her in generous drops, her shoes already soaking wet. Stepping onto another puddle of mud, Khalilah paused in front of the Academy, the last place where Yara was seen. Before her stood one of the two landmarks Khalilah had included in her sketch of the Smog Man. The Cathedral was located on the same side but a few meters away.

The gigantic ancient Greek sculptures standing on the two poles flanking the entrance of the Academy never failed to capture Khalilah’s attention. The colossal figure of goddess Athena with her spear raised high and Apollo holding his lyre: both protected the place from trespassers.

She used to love learning about ancient Greece and Rome through her dad’s books. Together with Yara, she would stay late after classes, asking the teacher questions about which god protected what, and the rituals of their celebration. Mythology had fascinated them both, which is why they’d promised each other they’d publish children’s mythology books together one day; Yara would write and Khalilah would illustrate.

Moving closer to the cathedral, Khalilah wondered what Yara had felt before she was taken. She wondered what her own plan was for dealing with Abu Kees, or whoever it was when he got out of his hiding spot.

You’re not thinking straight, Khalilah.

Yet what truth was there for her to hold onto other than the hope that she could save the only person she cared for? The only one who gave her life purpose when there was none. If it was to believe in Fatima’s fantasy, so be it. If it was a violent man who hated refugees, she would offer herself as bait. She would wait, letting humidity eat her bones from the inside; she would wait until she revealed the truth. She had lost so many people she loved. She’d fight tooth and nail to save the last one.

Ten minutes passed, twenty and then half an hour. Khalilah waited on the marble banister just outside the subway entrance, and the city cars and night buses honked and zoomed past her. Few people were still out. The rain fell so hard it felt as though it were drilling holes in her arms and legs, and Khalilah felt like a bundle of soggy flesh and damp eyes.

Remember who you are. Always.

She mentally replayed Mom’s words, thinking back on all those moments she’d seen her neglecting her needs for Khalilah to stay hydrated, fed, and dry. She thought back to the day they’d lost Dad; Mom hanging from the boat, Fatima and the women holding her from diving in the water while the rest of the men fished out her father’s corpse. Khalilah had stood in the corner, wailing, imagining the pain of thousands of cubic feet of saltwater crushing her lungs. Her dad’s lungs.

Suddenly, three claps of thunder tore the sky asunder, and Khalilah caught with the corner of her right eye a lean black shadow coming at her. Wiping her face, she stared at it, trying to discern if it was real or just a figment of her imagination. If it was human or not. She froze, panic tugging at her heart, making everything blur and double in her vision for a second.

The shadow was tall, abnormally so, and it was drawing near, moving from the cathedral towards the subway. The more Khalilah looked at it, the more substance it gained. This was a creature. Not a man.

She climbed down the banister cautiously and, without losing the shadow from her sight, she walked back towards the Academy entrance. Perhaps she could find a safe place to hide behind Athena and Apollo, or crouch at a secluded corner of the marble entrance. If the shadow got too close, Khalilah decided she would run towards one of the nearby alleys and hide behind a bench or hitch a ride from a passing bus.

But this was it. She would finally discover who took Yara and why. The bait had been successful.

The shadow figure followed Khalilah but halted in the middle of the cobblestones in front of her. There, it started swaying from left to right, right to left, mimicking the motion of a pendulum. Time slowed. The rain stopped for a second, as if someone paused the scene unraveling before her. Then, a hand made of deep grey smoke, with formidable, long thin fingers, reached out to snatch her.

Khalilah screamed, “Go away!” She almost tumbled on the marble steps, retreating further inside the Academy entrance, her heart racing and almost exploding.

Retracting its hand, the shadow tried to snatch her twice, but Khalilah evaded it. It drew nearer, standing taller than ever. Khalilah slowly realized that only half of the creature’s body was visible; the rest disappeared among the heavy clouds, high above Apollo and Athena. Tears started streaming down her face — it was him. It had to be him.

Her version of the Abu Kees.

While he stood motionless — Allah knows why — she surreptitiously climbed back down the stairs and darted away from the Academy, moving to the left. Taking the time to examine him, Khalilah contemplated her options; should she stay and confront him or flee? When she got back under the pouring rain, Khalilah’s gaze climbed up the creature’s body, eyes widening in horror.

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2023 by Sophia-Maria Nicolopoulos