Page 59

one

.

.

.

“This is your captain speaking,” a feminine voice says through the airplane speakers.

“Due to some recently developed weather conditions, we’re making an adjustment to the flight route to ensure a safer, less turbulent journey. This will tack on some additional flight time, though we’re not sure of how much just yet. Myself and the crew will keep you updated as we know more.”

“Lovely,” my mam says, giving me a look.

We’ve spent the last two weeks visiting her family in Scotland, and now we’re headed to Kuwait to visit my baba.

They’re divorced, but they’ve remained …

friends?

And that whole side of my family still loves her, so she’s tagging along.

Besides, who wants to travel internationally alone?

People don’t usually visit Kuwait in the summer.

Autumn is the better season, but something has been pulling me in this direction.

I feel a draw to travel east.

It might be that I miss my baba, or that there’s some opportunity the universe is trying to send my way.

I’m trying to listen to my therapist’s advice and follow my intuition, so here we are.

“Better to adjust the flight than to fear for our lives,” I say.

Growing up, I had an immense fear of heights.

That transferred into a fear of flying, but when your family lives on opposite sides of the world …

you learn to get over it quickly.

That being said, I’m still not the type to go on Ferris wheels or stand close to edges.

The flight attendants are standing next to us, whispering in Arabic, and my mother gives me a look.

“What?”

“What are they saying?”

I shrug.

“I don’t know. You and baba never taught me anything, so I’m the only person in the family who is monolingual, remember?”

She squints.

“You hear us speak Scots and Arabic all the time, you haven’t picked up anything?”

“They said the words the , and , and I swear . A lot of talk about God. I don’t know what you want from me. Also, it’s been years since I’ve spent more than a week or two around baba.”

“I know, I know. Do you feel like you know any Scots?”

“No.”

“Dalal, be serious. If you learned more, it could give you an advantage. Would look good on a resume to future employers,” she says, grilling me.

“Mam, I have a job. I make good money.”

“You barely make more than me, and you don’t even get summers off. That’s not good money.”

“It’s my first year out of college. I’m new, but I’ll move up. It takes time.” I do graphic design for a non-profit and nobody in my family is happy about that decision, but I don’t want to bust my ass for some capitalist regime.

I don’t expect my boomer parents to understand though.

“Have you thought about asking Faisal for a job with his company?”

“No, and don’t you dare say anything to baba. I don’t want to be a nepo-baby, and I definitely don’t want to end up the CEO of an industrial equipment company. I’m underqualified and uninterested.”

“You could learn, sweetie,” she says and takes a sip of her water.

“No, thank you,” I reply.

I love my parents, but I don’t want to work where they work or do what they do.

I want to forge my own path.

And frankly?

I just want to exist sometimes.

My parents are so absorbed with their religions, their jobs, and their subscriptions to the idea that you have to leave a mark on the world or that you have to die wealthy—I don’t want any of that.

I would be perfectly content painting pretty pictures in a cabin in the woods somewhere, never to be seen or heard from again.

Vibrations come from underneath my seat, and I peer down the aisle to see everyone’s chairs are shaking.

There’s a rattling sound coming from the overhead bins.

“Hello everybody, this is your captain speaking. We are experiencing some unexpected turbulence right now, but I want to assure you this is a normal part of air travel. We’re in communication with traffic control and are taking the necessary precautions. Please stay seated with your seat belts buckled at this time,” she says, her voice calm and steady.

A flight attendant moves towards the microphone and repeats the message in Arabic.

All the seatbelt signs light up, and the flight attendants make their way towards the front and back, strapping themselves in.

We seem to drop, and my stomach lurches, the feeling much like being on a roller coaster.

I hate roller coasters.

“Dear heavenly father,” my mam begins a prayer.

She takes my hand, and I intertwine it with hers, if only to bring her some comfort.

I don’t believe in God.

I think being raised in two different religions can do that to a kid.

I never knew whether to follow the words of the Quran or the Bible.

There’s so much overlap, but so many differences too.

The plane is shaking more violently now; luggage slings about the overhead compartments as chairs squeak and shrill.

“This is your captain speaking once again. We are experiencing more turbulence than anticipated, and, as a precaution, we are performing an emergency landing. You must remain calm and seated with your seat buckle tightened. Please ensure all tray tables are secured. If at any point you feel the need to use your oxygen mask, don’t hesitate to use it,” she says and pauses for a brief moment.

The entire airplane is quiet—so quiet you could hear a pin drop—before the flight attendant comes on through the speaker and repeats everything in Arabic.

My mam squeezes my hand tightly now, pulling it towards her lips and planting a gentle kiss.

There’s fear in her pools of blue, and I try my best not to think about what’s coming next.

“I want to remind everyone that our crew is trained to handle these exact kinds of situations,” she begins, but I can’t hear over the sound of my racing heart.

I close my eyes and force myself to take a deep breath.

“Remain calm and listen to the instructions of our flight staff,” she says, her voice a little shakier this time.

Our pilot being scared is not a good sign.

Everything happens so incredibly fast.

Window covers are opened so the flight attendants can see where we’re landing.

The plane’s vibrations and shakes turn into outright jerks in different directions.

Mostly everyone is calm, but there is a woman praying loudly and a distressed-looking man who keeps darting to the bathroom to vomit, much to the flight crew’s dismay.

He makes his way back towards his seat, but the plane jerks again, sending him on top of another passenger.

He apologizes in Arabic, but the other passengers reply in what I think might be Farsi.

I’m okay.

Scared?

Sure.

But I’m not freaking out.

Planes emergency land all the time, and everything turns out fine.

It’s rare that everything goes down in flames.

I watch as a piece of the plane—an exterior wall, I believe—flies off.

My heart is racing, the thumping reaching up my throat and threatening to take my oxygen.

All masks are now deployed, and although it’s the opposite of what we’ve always been taught, my mam helps me into mine before putting on her own.

The changes in pressure are so swift, our bodies don’t have time to adjust.

A piercing, tightening pain makes its way into my ears and head.

I want to cry out in agony, but my body is too shocked.

“Keep the heid!” my mam whispers in my ear.

I don’t even register what’s happening as we come down, pieces of the plane tearing off with the thud of our landing.

People are cheering and crying and praying, but I’m catatonic.

I can see everything happening around me, but I can’t move or speak.

I think the pilot makes one last speech.

I think the flight attendants escort us out an emergency exit, but I’m not really sure.

My body and brain don’t reconnect until we’re sitting on a large log on the ground, the crew passing out bottles of water and aiding the injured.

“It’s a miracle, Dalal. Not one person is critical,” my mam says, her pale, slender fingers reaching to rub my shoulder.

I look around, and it’s a mess.

“There are people bleeding, mam. We are in the middle of a forest.”

She smiles and nods.

“Yes, sweetie, but we are all very much alive.”

And although I suppose she’s right, it’s hard to see the positives in all of this.

“Hello everyone,” a flight attendant says into a megaphone.

I didn’t know they had those on board, but I can see how it would be useful for situations like this, or if the PA system on a flight went down.

“We need a few different volunteers to help. Firstly, are there any strong, uninjured people that can help clear some of the debris?”

Another flight attendant repeats her request in Arabic, and a few Kuwaiti men raise their hands.

“Do you work out a lot?” the flight attendant asks, looking me dead in the eyes.

I squint and cock my head, confused about the random question that borders on rude.

“I uh … I do a lot of cardio, but I’m not very strong. I’m more into hiking and Zumba.”

“Perfect. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be invasive, but we believe one of our first aid kits fell out somewhere within a mile or two radius from here, could you go track it down? We sent a crew member searching in the opposite direction, but it would be good to have multiple people on the lookout. I can give you a compass and a walkie talkie, just to be safe.”

This sounds like a terrible idea.

I enjoy walking, but not in the woods, in a country I’ve never been to before, by myself, after a plane crash.

Oof.

“There’s a guy who really needs stitches,” she explains.

And that’s where my empathy gets the better of me.

“Of course.”

The crew members load me up with all the necessary supplies for my journey.

They recommend I return if I don’t find it in three hours, and my mam gives me a tight hug before sending me on my way.

Apparently, we’re in the dead center of the Foloi Oak Forest.

It’s beautiful here.

There are trees and greenery everywhere you look.

The crew members told me rain is rare for summer months in Greece, and, since it’s midday, I don’t have to worry about traversing unknown terrain in the dark or wet.

I start my journey, taking a step away from the clearing and into the thick forest.

Looking back, my mam waves at me, her face smiling ear-to-ear.

My mam and baba are polar opposites.

Mam teaches kids, but this is her second career.

Her first was in paleontology.

She used to hike all around the world, doing different digs.

She speaks three languages fluently, and about ten conversationally.

Baba is completely different.

He speaks two languages, and conversationally a few more, but he did not seek to learn them …

it was simply convenient.

His caretakers and some of his parents' friends spoke other languages like Farsi and Tagalog, and so, in turn, he learned a lot.

Where my mam would like to travel the world, eating bugs and venturing into the unknown, baba just wants to stay inside. He likes to watch soccer, eat delicious food, and make money.

And frankly? Minus the money part, I think I take after my father more. I like hiking in familiar territory, sure, but most of my workouts happen inside. I’d much rather do hot yoga and Zumba than step foot outside.

I also wouldn’t eat a bug—I don’t even wanna see a bug—but here I am, venturing into a likely bug-infested forest. How do I always wind up in these messes? It almost feels like some force of the universe is driving me to where I’m going.

Maybe I’ll find this first aid kit and save someone’s life and be deemed a hero. Probably not, but I have this weird gut feeling I was meant to be here, even if I don’t like it.

Climbing over a large branch, I see … What the hell am I looking at? Little baby animals are nestled against each other between thick patches of grass. They’re so small, but I don’t touch them as I inch down closer to get a better look.

A low, rumbling grunt comes from overhead.

There is a large, dark-brown beast charging towards me. I get a glimpse of a pair of tusks, and I run. Dodging trees and brush, birds and rabbits, I haul ass away from the beast tailing me.

It’s a boar. A wild boar, and I unknowingly got close to her children. If I can get far enough away from the babies, hopefully she’ll go back.

Hopefully.

My legs propel me faster than they ever have before, and I continue to another clearing, where I see pieces of debris from the crash. I should be looking for the first aid kit, but with the boar still at my heels, I carry on.

I can come back and search for the kit, but not if I’m injured by this animal. I don’t fault the creature for wanting to protect her babies, but I have no idea how to make her see me as anything but a threat now.

Running what I think is north, my shins ache with every step, likely splintering with the force of my movements. This wouldn’t be the first time the familiar, sharp feeling makes its way into my legs, restricting me.

But I can’t think about that. Not now. I just have to push myself until she gives up. My breathing is labored, my stomach threatening to empty its contents, but adrenaline takes me past my usual breaking point as I climb up a tree, out of the animal’s reach.

At some point the boar turns around. I’m not sure how long she’s been gone when I finally notice and climb down, allowing my body to collapse to the ground.

Fragments of light pour into my vision as I peel open my eyelids, forcing myself to wake. Everything is wooden and brown, and there are little vines and flowers decorating the walls, which curve up towards some sort-of sun roof.

The architecture in Greece is not like anything I’ve seen before. It’s so different from America and Scotland and Kuwait. Even in Dubai, nothing looked like this. Everything was metal and shiny, whereas this is more natural.

“Good. You are awake,” a low, feminine voice says from behind me. They are seated at a table, but their body is not normal. Or at least, not human.

They have large, dark feathered wings that are tucked behind them. The beast, or maybe person—I’m not sure what to call them—turns towards me. Their posture is regal but predatory.

The feeling, that innate push to travel east, to keep going until I find what I’ve been looking for, finally ceases. A pang of relief hits my chest, followed by confusion and fear.

“What are you?” I ask, unsure of what else to say as I sit up.

“A harpy. We are creatures of myth. Some say we are half-bird, others say we are related to the dinosaurs. Most of us are half-woman though,” she explains. “I am a woman, and you may refer to me as such.”

Got it. Man, this week couldn’t get much worse, could it? “Do you have a name?”

She cocks her head, as if observing me, before she squints, and I notice her eyes are like orbs of pure gold, glowing in the sunlight. “Amalthea. It means to soften or soothe.”

“That’s beautiful. My name is Dalal.” I don’t tell her it means fondness, because I do not feel very fond of anything lately. Emptiness has been filling the cavity of my chest for years. This innate sense of being alone, even when I’m with friends and family. It’s been haunting me, as if half my soul was somewhere else.

“That is also beautiful,” she notes. I continue studying her face. Amalthea’s nose is large and dominating. I want to run my finger down its bridge, enjoying the feel of the beak-like curve.

She’s wearing clothes. They are somewhat like the outfits seen in history books on ancient Greece, but there’s a modern twist to them. Her breasts are covered by a white, thin fabric that twists at the shoulders. Pants cover her lower half, but cut-off at the calves, revealing her feathered legs and taloned feet. Amalthea is strong and muscled but still so feminine. Her beauty is otherworldly.

“Is this your nest?” I ask, looking around at the small, almost-empty space.

She shakes her head, curls of red falling down her back.. “No, this is my workshop. My nest is much larger and has many more amenities.”

Part of me would like to see her nest, to learn more about this harpy and her people, but I need to get back to the plane and my mam. She’s probably worried sick about me.

“Well,” I say, the words struggling to form. “I should get going.”

“You should not. The rains will be coming down soon. We should go back to my nest for shelter until the storm clears,” she says definitively.

“I thought it rarely rained here?”

“Yes. During summers that is true, but rare does not mean impossible. Look at me,” Amalthea says, gesturing to her figure.

Behind her sits an antiquated sewing machine. It’s a dark, rusted metallic, attached to a foot pedal on the floor. If this is her workshop, she must be some sort of seamstress.

I wonder if she designs the clothes on paper before she makes them, or if she drapes them over the person or a mannequin. I could ask, but that would be delaying the inevitable.

I have to leave.

“I’m sorry. I really appreciate you caring for me, but I have to get back to my mam.”

“Mam?”

“The person who birthed me.”

She says something in Greek that sounds a lot like mother, and I nod. “Yes.”

“You sound like the American tourists, except when you say that word. Mam.”

I smile at her and stand from the small cot I’ve been sitting on. “Yes. My mam is from Scotland and my baba is from Kuwait, so sometimes I say words and it sounds like them and their accents.”

“You are lucky, then. To be so loved.”

Her response is peculiar, but I shake it off. Having parents does not always mean you are loved, but I am one of the lucky ones. “She’s waiting for me.”

“Are you tourists, then?”

“Not exactly. We were traveling to Kuwait, and our plane had to perform an emergency landing. We crashed here. I was looking for a first aid kit when I stumbled upon a boar and her children,” I explain. “We should’ve never ended up in Greece at all.”

“No, I suppose not. Especially not the Foloi Forest. It is deceptively not a place many are warned about, but my kind are carnivorous. We mostly consume smaller beasts like boar and foxes, but there are those who crave human flesh.”

A shiver runs down my spine. “Thank you for the warning, but I must go.”

I make an attempt to climb up the wall to get a better view, and quickly realize how high up we are. The workshop is perched on the tall branch of an oak tree, likely towering over thirty meters.

Fear grips my chest like a vise, bile threatening to exit my stomach as I look around. This view of the forest would be breathtaking if I could see and hear over the feeling of my heartbeat raging in my chest.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Warm, soft feathers wrap around me, enveloping me in comfort and darkness. “It is not safe for you to go by yourself. Let me take you to my home. When the storm clears, I promise to return you to your people,” Amalthea says, her voice mellow.

“Okay,” I return and allow her to scoop me into her arms. I’m not sure why I trust this woman so much, but she just feels honest. My intuition is telling me that she won’t harm me.

Her feet, which are more like claws, push off the edge of the nest as her wings help us soar into the air. She dodges through a series of trees, carefully angling us, and I nuzzle my face into her chest, wafting in the smell of icy air, lemon balm, and thyme.

I can’t look down. My body is shaking, my heart beating at an uncomfortable speed. Fear is the only sensation I know, and it has its jaws locked onto me.

“Are you afraid of heights?” Amalthea asks. There’s no judgement in her tone, only genuine curiosity.

“Terrified,” I get out, my voice as unstable as I am.

I try to clear my mind of negativity and anxiety, forcing me to envision myself in a better situation. I wish I were back at Amalthea’s workshop, asking her questions about her people while she sews me a beautiful gown. I’d try it on for her and let her slip it off of me, her fingers carefully brushing against my most sensitive areas.

That’s where I’d like to be instead of here, maybe a thousand feet off the ground, flying through weather that only worsens as the minutes tick on. The rain hasn’t begun, but the sky had grayed the last time I peeked.

A finger combs through my hair, gently massaging my scalp. “Could I ease some of your fear … and bring you pleasure?”

What? I don’t know if she’s asking what I think she’s asking, or if I’m being presumptuous. “Sure,” I say.

A slender hand makes its way up my thigh, climbing towards the entrance to my leggings. I think she meant exactly what I was hoping she meant.

Instead of the teasing I’m used to receiving, Amalthea goes straight for my clit, pressing into it and swirling her fingers in perfect, languid strokes. My leg shudders, but she adjusts her grip on me in her other arm, ensuring I stay in place.

Dripping with arousal, the apex of my thigh becomes slick. Amalthea must notice, because she moves to my opening, outlining it with her fingers before slipping two inside.

“So soft,” she whispers into my ear. “So soft and wet and made for this. For me.”

Any thoughts of flying or heights or fear dies with the sound of her praise as she finger fucks me into oblivion. I moan out, my body rolling with the waves of my pleasure, but she doesn’t stop.

She places her thumb on my clit and circles it while her other fingers remain curved inside, stroking my inner walls. I writhe in pleasure, allowing my body to fully melt into hers, and everything clicks in place.

This force—this drive that felt like fate intended me to travel east—it was her. She was the thing I was searching for. I’m not sure if she magically conjured me to arrive or if the universe is pushing us together.

Maybe we’re mates like in all those fanfictions I’ve read on AO3.

Either way, it is so obviously clear in this moment of complete and utter ecstasy that she is the thing I need. The adventure I’ve desperately been seeking from the mundaneness of everyday life.

I cry out, breathing into her neck, as I come down hard with the rapid, delicious movements of her fingers.

“The sound of your pleasure is music to my ears, little bird,” she whispers and removes her fingers.

We land with a soft thud, and she places me on the floor of the nest. This one is much larger, and the roof is covered. There’s a small, door-like opening at the front that leads to a wooden landing for her to take off from.

Everything is made of panels of wood and large branches. Beautifully carved, ornate furniture decorates the space. It reminds me of the wooden birdhouse my dayda used to hang outside her house in Ardiya.

It is simple. More cottage than home. A nest. I am thirsty and tired, but I walk around, investigating all the details of this place.

“Would you like some tea?” she asks, standing at a stove.

“Yes, please,” I say. It truly feels like she can read my mind—or that we’re somehow connected. My thoughts and feelings resonate with her, and she sends them straight back to me.

The scent of lavender hits my nose as she brews a pot, and I’m afraid I look strange as I awkwardly stand in the corner.

“You can have a seat. That’s a … kl—couch. Make yourself comfortable.”

The couch looks like a smaller nest, and there are egg-shaped cushions inside it. I lay down, stretching my body out, but I feel like a child in a ball pit.

Amalthea places two cups of tea on the coffee table and climbs into the couch-nest beside me, and suddenly it’s like I’m home. Her presence is cozy, her body warmth a much-needed reprieve to my aching muscles.

I didn’t even realize my muscles were sore until her touch immediately relieved me.

“Will you tell me a story?” I ask and sit up to grab a sip of tea. The mug feels nice in my hands, the texture smooth. “Did you make this?”

“The cup? No,” she says with a laugh. “Konstantina made that. I am the seamstress; I sew clothing and cushions.”

I lay back down beside her, placing my head on her chest, and let out a loud yawn. Rain is starting to fall, a soft pitter-patter coming from the roof.

“There was once a cruel king—he had many wives,” she begins. “He treated two of his sons from a previous marriage horribly, abusing and abandoning them.”

The soft, deep resonance of her voice echoes in my ears.

“The gods were displeased with him, so they cursed him. Many say they made him blind, others say he traded his senses for an extension of his life, but my people know the truth.”

My eyebrows lift. “And what was that?”

“The harpies stole his food, and eventually, when he retaliated against him … he became our food.”

“Oh?” I say, dozing off.

“But he made everyone fall ill?—”

I try to continue listening, but it’s no use. My body and mind succumb to the darkness, allowing rest to finally take me.

Everything happened so fast. The plane crash, meeting a harpy, and the encounter we had together. I open my eyes, expecting to see feathers and a nest, but there is only tall oak trees and the fair skin of my mam’s arm as she lays beside me.

“Dalal, you’re finally awake,” she says and leans down to kiss me on the cheek.

“What happened?” I ask. There’s a sort of desperation in my voice that I hope she doesn’t notice. It might’ve all been a dream.

A beautiful, lovely dream. But I hope it wasn’t. What I just experienced was raw and real. I don’t know if I believe in mates—or even God or gods or souls—but I believe in what I felt.

“You were gone yesterday for a very long time. Everyone was worried sick, but I knew you were safe. I could sense it—you know, a mother’s intuition,” she explains. “And then you arrived in the middle of the night like you’d been sleepwalking.”

“What’s happening with the flight?” I ask, sitting up on the cot on the ground.

“Rescue team is coming tomorrow. They’re putting us all on another flight to Kuwait.”

I nod. There’s an empty sadness in me. I don’t want to leave when it feels like this fantastic journey just began. I have so much I want to ask, and so much more I wish to see. Konstantina—I want to meet her, and the other harpies too. I want to experience more of Amalthea and ask about her ancestors.

I’d love to hear more of her wacky stories.

“Why do you look so glum? You’ve been itching to come back here,” she says. She means Kuwait and the middle east. And I love it. I love Kuwait; I love Scotland. I tolerate the United States.

But I’ve been itching to come here. Greece. The universe has been calling me, beckoning me towards this forest, and now I’m supposed to just leave?

The next few weeks are a blur. We load onto a bus and head towards the nearest airport. Our flight departs. We land in Kuwait. I see my baba. We enjoy hummus and machboos and those little white grape juice boxes I loved so much as a kid.

But I am sick with fear—true terror—and for once, it isn’t about heights.

What if I never see Amalthea again? What if she dies? What if I live my entire life with this feeling in my chest, like a string leading me straight to her?

I change our flights.

We’re still flying back to the U.S., but there’s an extra-long layover in Greece now. Before it was in Munich. I’m not sure what I’m going to tell my mam, but I have to see Amalthea.

The sun beams brightly as I hike the Foloi Oak Forest. I told my mam this was something I needed to do alone. A personal journey of self-discovery. This is my Eat Pray Love, as cringe as that sounds.

I knew she’d understand.

The deeper into the forest I go, the more winded and tired I am, but I keep trekking along. I’m determined to find her. This place is still beautiful and mysterious, smelling of oak and other herbs. The caws of birds are like a cacophony as giant, swooping eagles lunge down from high in the sky. Harpies.

Familiar black wings and ginger-red hair come into view, and Amalthea wraps her arms around me.

“You came back?”

“I had to. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but it feels like I belong here.”

She pulls me into a kiss, her hand wrapping around my jaw, drawing my mouth into hers before she gently releases me. “That’s because you do.”

“It’s like a war in my head, Amalthea. I have my family and my job and my whole life, but there is this feeling in my gut like I need to be here instead. This feels stronger than me; it’s destiny. I know that sounds absurd.”

“It does not.”

“What do I do?” I ask, and she takes my hands in hers.

“You could spend half the year with me, and the other half with your family and the humans. Visit America, Scotland, and Kuwait, and then come back home to me,” Amalthea says, tears in her eyes. “You are my mate, you belong to me, but I respect that they have pieces of you, too.”

“Like Hades and Persephone?”

She shakes her head. “Do not bring the gods into this—let’s make our own story.”