The Sumac Harvest
"During the wild sumac harvest in the Galilee hills, Reem works alongside Ziad—a reclusive herbalist whose knowledge of plants extends to the secrets of the heart."
The Sumac Harvest
The sumac bushes blazed crimson against the Galilee hills, their clusters heavy and fragrant with the sour spice that defined Palestinian cooking. Reem climbed the steep path, following directions to a herbalist her grandmother had sworn by.
"You're looking for Ziad." The voice came from above. A man in his fifties descended through the brush, moving with surprising grace. "Your grandmother called ahead."
"She said you'd teach me the old ways."
"Did she." His eyes assessed her—city clothes, uncertain posture, the desperation of someone searching. "The old ways aren't learned in a day."
"I have time."
Ziad's home was a stone cottage surrounded by drying racks and herb gardens. He lived alone, Reem learned—widowed a decade ago, his children scattered to countries with better futures.
"Why do you stay?" she asked, watching him prepare sumac for drying.
"Because someone has to remember." His hands never stopped moving. "Which plants heal fevers, which ones ease heartbreak, where the wild thyme grows sweetest. If I leave, the knowledge dies."
"That's a heavy burden."
"It's a purpose." He looked up. "You're searching for one, aren't you? That's why your grandmother sent you."
The accuracy stung. "I quit my job in Tel Aviv. I couldn't pretend anymore—couldn't work in a system that..." She trailed off.
"I understand." His voice gentled. "Sometimes we have to unlearn before we can learn again. Start with the sumac."
The days fell into rhythm. Reem learned to identify plants by scent and texture, to harvest without damaging, to preserve what the land offered. Ziad was a patient teacher, answering her questions with stories that stretched back generations.
"My grandmother called you a magician," she confessed one evening, helping him grind dried sumac.
"Your grandmother was kind." His smile was wry. "I'm just a man who pays attention. The magic is in the plants."
"You're more than that."
"Am I?" His eyes held hers longer than necessary. "What else do you see?"
"Loneliness. The same kind I have."
"Careful observations," he murmured. "Dangerous ones."
"I'm tired of being careful."
The kiss happened among the sumac bushes, crimson clusters surrounding them like witnesses. Ziad tasted of the tart spice, his mouth both sweet and sour.
"This is complicated," he breathed against her lips.
"Everything is complicated." She pulled him closer. "I don't care."
"I'm old enough to be—"
"Don't finish that sentence." Her eyes were fierce. "I'm not a child, Ziad. I know what I want."
"What do you want?"
"You. This place. A purpose. All of it."
They made love in his cottage as the sun set, the scent of drying herbs wrapping around them. Ziad touched her with a healer's precision—finding every point of tension, every source of pleasure.
"Helwa," he murmured against her stomach. "Zay el summaq." Like sumac. "Tart and perfect."
"Please—Ziad—"
He entered her slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, building sensation with the patience of a man who understood that good things took time.
"Don't rush," he whispered. "Feel everything."
She did—every thrust, every kiss, every word he breathed against her skin. When she finally came, it felt like harvest—abundance pouring through her, more than she could hold.
Ziad followed with a groan, and they lay tangled in sheets that smelled of rosemary and sage.
"Stay through the winter," he said afterward, tracing patterns on her arm. "Learn everything I know. Then decide."
"Decide what?"
"Whether this is where you belong." His eyes were serious. "I won't trap you, Reem. But I'm offering you a life. A purpose. A place in the land's memory."
"And you?"
"I'm part of the offer." His smile was soft. "If you want me."
Reem looked out the window at the hills she'd come to love—wild, resilient, full of secrets waiting to be learned.
"Na'am," she said. "I'll stay. Teach me everything."
"Even the love potions?"
"Especially those."
His laughter echoed through the cottage, and outside, the sumac swayed in the evening breeze—patient, enduring, waiting for the hands that would learn its wisdom.