Saydet el-Najat Bells | أجراس سيدة النجاة
"She rings the bells at the church of Our Lady of Deliverance. He's the composer seeking sacred sounds for his requiem. In ancient bronze, they find resonance. 'Inti el jaras el wahid' (أنتِ الجرس الوحيد)."
Saydet el-Najat Bells
أجراس سيدة النجاة
Bells carry prayers.
I've rung them at Saydet el-Najat for thirty years. Dawn, noon, evening—my arms pull heaven closer.
Then the composer arrives, listening differently.
I'm Madeleine.
Fifty-seven, bell ringer, arms strong from decades of pulling. The bells speak; I'm just their voice.
Alexandre Hatem composes what churches have forgotten.
"I need to record them."
"They're not for recording."
"They're for a requiem. In memory of Lebanon's dead."
"Which dead? There are so many."
"All of them."
He's sixty.
Lebanese composer, returned from Paris. His life's work: a mass for everyone lost.
"Why bells?"
"Because they called the dead in life. They should honor them in art."
"My bells are humble—"
"Your bells are true. Humility is the requiem's language."
He records over months.
Every peal, every variation. We work together—my ringing, his listening.
"You hear things I don't," I admit.
"You feel things I can't. Together, we're complete."
The composition grows.
My bells woven into something larger. He plays me drafts; I cry at hearing them transformed.
"This is beautiful."
"This is you." He takes my hands. "Inti el jaras el wahid." You're the only bell.
"I'm just a ringer—"
"You're the soul of the piece."
The kiss happens in the bell tower.
Where I've worked my whole life. His mouth on mine resonates.
"Alexandre—"
"Every note led to you."
We make love beside the bells.
Bronze witnesses, centuries old. He lays me on the tower stones.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Old. Plain—"
"Resonant. Perfectly resonant."
He worships me musically.
Every touch a phrase. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Alexandre—"
"Let me compose on you."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip bell ropes, crying out in the tower. Pleasure ringing through me.
"Ya Allah—"
"There. That's the note I needed."
When he enters me, I feel composed.
We move together beneath bells—his body and mine, harmonizing.
"Aktar—"
"Oui—"
The climax is cathedral chord.
We cry out together—bells almost ringing in sympathy. Then silence, sacred silence.
Two years later
The Requiem premieres.
My bells opening, closing, carrying throughout. Alexandre dedicates it to "M, the soul of the bells."
"Worth the composition?" I ask.
"Best music I ever found." He kisses me as bells ring evening. "You."
Alhamdulillah.
For bells that carry.
For composers who listen.
For ringers who become music.
The End.