The Hakawati by Alameddine Rabih

Cave of Machpelah, in the field that Abraham had purchased from the Hittites.
    “This is now the Tomb of the Patriarchs in Hebron,” my grandfather said, as his finger settled on the fading map upon the rickety table, “where the sons of Sarah are still trying to cast out the sons of Hagar.”
    “Tell me the story of Abraham sacrificing Ishmael on the mountain.”
    “No, I already told you that one. It’s common, too common. Boring, even. It was the doctor’s favorite story, and he told it so badly. It’s so hackneyed and clichéd. A story needs to be bewitching.”
    Once, not too long ago, there was a little boy, about the same age as you, who lived with his family in a small village, not unlike this one, not too far from here. The family did not have much money. The father was a stonemason, the mother looked after the house, cooked delicious meals. All the children had their own chores to do. Our boy was the family’s shepherd.
    Every morning, he would take the sheep out to pasture. He watched them graze, made sure they did not wander, and protected them from foxes, wolves, and marauding hyenas. The sheep liked him and trusted him, so they didn’t stray far from our boy. His job became easy, and every day he had time to play. At first, he played with sticks and stones: he made a sheep pen by staking twigs in four corners; small stones were his sheep. But then the little lambs came into his make-believe pen, clamoring for his attention. So he stopped playing with sticks and stones and became one of the lambs, jumped with them, bent down and pretended to chew on the wild-lavender bushes, bleated with them.
    When he returned home that evening, he wished he were a lamb because he had had fun playing. Before he went to sleep, he heard his parents arguing about money. “We have so many mouths to feed,” the mother said. “How can we find enough for all of them?”
    “We have the sheep,” the father said. “We have some money. I am working. We’ll survive. We have for generations.”
    But they kept on arguing, and the boy slept fitfully.
    The following day, he and the lambs played again, watched over by the ewes. The boy and the lambs ran and jumped and jostled each other. He returned home very happy, but when he opened the door to tell his parents all about his day, he found them arguing.
    “How could you have promised that?” the mother asked. “We don’t have enough to feed our children, and now you want to have a feast? Have you no conscience? Don’t you understand how bad our situation is?”
    “How dare you?” the father yelled at the mother. “This is the bey we’re talking about. It’s an honor. When he comes here, the house will be blessed. I don’t understand how you can think of not wanting him in your home. Most people would die for the opportunity.”
    The mother whispered, “What has the bey done for my family?”
    The father slapped the mother. The boy ran into his room.
    Before he fell asleep, our boy prayed. He wished he were a lamb and could play all day without any worries. He wished his family could be happy. He wished that he could be the one to provide them with happiness. He loved his family so much. He woke up the next day in the sheep pen. He looked around and saw all his friends, the other lambs, happy that he was in their midst, finally one of them. They bleated in joy. All of them pranced up and down.
    The father and mother came out of the house together and walked toward the pen.
    “Danger, danger,” said the eldest ewe. “The evil ones are here.”
    “No, no,” said our boy. “They are not evil. They are my family.”
    “When those two show up together,” another sheep said, “one of us disappears.”
    The father and mother came into the pen. They tried to figure which lamb to pick.
    “Look at me,” the boy yelled. “Look at me. Look at me.”
    “This one,” the mother said. “He is noisy.”
    “He looks plump and juicy,” the father added. He placed the