Moon over St. Charbel

Innaya

Previously:

April awoke in Rafik and Isabelle’s home, Al Raji’s words still echoing in her mind. One Joseph had been legacy, linen napkins, and silent servants. But this Joseph was grit and grace, shaped by struggle, not inheritance.

Isabelle’s quiet push toward St. Charbel nudged April into deeper trust, though the day had left her shaken. Then Rou appeared with her magnetic energy and model allure, a tad familiar, and far too close to Joseph.

At sushi, April tried to play it cool as Rou dug into her past and fate revealed its twist: two Josephs, same name, same initials. As teasing turned awkward and Joseph stepped away with Rou, April wrestled with the unspoken.

By night’s end, she realized she wasn’t just choosing between two men. She was standing at a crossroads between who she was and who she was becoming.

As Joseph and I drove back from the sushi adventure, the car was quiet except for some old American tunes slipping through the static of the radio, like ghosts from another dimension trying to find their way back to me. Outside, the Beirut skyline flickered behind us a dim constellation of streetlights and smoky silhouettes. Inside, the silence carried a different gravity, dense and deliberate, like something unsaid was riding quietly in the backseat.

I remember thinking how strangely unmoored I felt. The emotional tide had shifted beneath me, and I no longer knew which direction was shore. My appetite had vanished hours ago long before Rou’s second glass of Arak, and well after she started slicing into my calm with that cool, curated smile.

Her honesty cut clean, like a scalpel dipped in lemon juice, precise, necessary and stinging.

“Do you even know his whole story?” she’d asked, casually, like she was commenting on the menu.
“You think he’s telling you everything?”

The whole dinner felt orchestrated like some sort of scene from a SXSW film I hadn’t auditioned for. Everyone knew the ending but me. It was as if some cosmic director had decided it was time to spotlight every unresolved feeling I’d been trying to outrun.

And the name Joseph, a name once ordinary and plain had never sounded more prophetic… or more alluring.

He didn’t defend himself. Didn’t stop her. Didn’t redirect or deflect.
He just sat there like a riddle disguised as a man, watching me with those velvet-brown eyes that seemed to both anchor me and let me drift.

Those eyes.

The color of rain soaked mahogany. Of melted chocolate and buried memory. You could lose your compass in them and not even mind being lost.

I flashed back to the first time I saw them in Laurel Canyon. That wild, strange editing office above the Country Store, just up the hill from where Jim Morrison’s ghost still hovered and the eucalyptus trees whispered secrets to the lucky ones who lingered long enough to catch them.

He had a parakeet on his head, for God’s sake. A literal bird, perched there like it, too, understood we were stepping into something mythic as if Riders on the Storm should’ve been playing somewhere up Kirkwood, echoing through the crisp warm canyon air.

I walked in, and the floor disappeared. Time bent sideways, Matrix-style. My name in his mouth sounded like it had always belonged there. A man too tall for the room, with a voice that made vowels feel like lullabies. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. It was terrifying. And somehow, here I was again.

Back then, it was Laurel Canyon.
Now, it was this mountain above the sea.

Joseph’s camp.

A place I had never known before, yet it was folding itself around me with alarming tenderness like a home I hadn’t realized I’d been searching for. The streets hummed with a quiet rhythm, clotheslines fluttering like flags of resilience, satellite dishes leaning toward the sky, children chasing a patched up deflated ball under balconies draped with drying herbs and prayer.

It shouldn’t have felt like home.
And yet oddly it did.

Not because it was easy.
But because it was raw grit.
Like Joseph.

Later, back at Rafik and Isabelle’s, I put on my UGG boots and curled up on the concrete slab balcony that had become my perch for all things unsorted. My feet dangled over the edge like they were trying to find some grounding. Below, the camp hummed its nocturnal rhythm, someone boiling tea, a distant television glowing behind tattered curtains, the soft coo of babies and cackling laughter from old men, a mourning dove calling into the dark.

If you asked me why I went with him that night, I’d say it wasn’t about jealousy. Not entirely. It wasn’t even about Rou. It was about the ache between mystery and knowing, between love and fear. Between the man I thought Joseph was… and the one I was starting to realize I didn’t know at all.

Isabelle had told me plainly: Go to Saint Charbel.

Joseph had promised gently: We will.

But promises here weren’t declarations. They were invitations, fluttering moths that could vanish on the wind if you didn’t chase them toward the light.

Joseph eventually joined me. We sipped hot sage tea while he smoked, the cigarette tip glowing like a tiny beacon in the dark. His old phone buzzed once. Then again. And again. He glanced at it, unfazed.

He answered. Short words in Arabic, clipped and precise. I didn’t understand, but I was starting to recognize patterns. The shift in his tone when something serious came through. The way his mouth made a funny little O, like a yawn that never quite opened, when something intense or unlikely was unfolding.

He hung up and hesitated. That moment between confession and concealment was starting to become familiar.

“I have to go,” he said softly. “Are you going to be good here?”

“Where are you going?” I asked too quickly. “Joseph, wait. I want to go with you.”

“This isn’t for you, April.”

“I promise I’ll be a little wallflower,” I said, sitting up straighter.

He laughed, shaking his head. “You? A wallflower?”

“I’ll stay out of the way. I swear. Just… don’t go without me. Is this about the Forgotten?”

He looked at me deliberately. The kind of gaze that didn’t rush. That carried meaning.

“Yes. I have to check on something,” he said at last. “It’s near Saint Charbel. You could… you could finally see him.”

The name drifted in like a memory from a dream. Not fear. Something older. Recognition.

Just then, Isabelle appeared with a tray of snacks, krikri nuts, dried figs, something sticky and sweet. She set it down gently and gave Joseph a look. Not a look, the look. The kind exchanged between old souls who didn’t waste words. Her eyes said what mine hadn’t yet: Take her.

Joseph sighed, resigned, maybe relieved.

“Alright,” he said, standing. “Go get your boots.”

I clapped like a kid chasing bubbles and jumped up too fast, like a head cheerleader shouting an eager go team go!

Now, here we were again. Different continents. Same gravitational pull.

Jim Croce’s Time in a Bottle drifted through the Jimmy’s speakers as we climbed the narrow road toward St. Charbel. I hadn’t heard that song in decades, but the lyrics slipped in like sneaky déjà vu.

I’ve looked around enough to know, you’re the one I want to go through time with…

I found Croce around the same time I got hooked on rock climbing a sport that felt like part meditation, part madness. Just you, the cliff, and whatever strength you could summon or not. I dragged Erika into it, and soon we were barreling down mountains, hands scraped, limbs shot, Croce blaring through the speakers. His voice didn’t just accompany our climbs he scored our escape. Climbing became our way out, our antidote. For two outliers, it gave us something solid to grip. Literally.

And now, years later, that same voice hit low in my chest, stealing my breath in the quietest way. How music can still do that, shape-shift to the moment, crack you open, and lead you right back to some forgotten piece of yourself.

Even with Rou’s probing, Joseph’s silence, and the old ache of not knowing, I was rappelling fast. For him. For this strange, wounded, sacred place. For the way the stars looked older here. Wiser. For something I couldn’t name, but felt against my skin like a truth-rope, waiting to be gripped.

I was thrilled to be alone with him, climbing another mountain. But this one felt different than the Cedars colder, quieter, more desolate somehow. I had fallen into reverie with Harissa, held her in my heart like a queen. And now I was curious. Saint Charbel had a gravity all his own like her king, but of another realm entirely.

I wanted to understand what it was that drew millions of pilgrims from all around the world to this place.

Still, something buzzed low in my gut not fear, exactly, but a quiet knowing. Whatever mysterious business Joseph was up to tonight, it wasn’t ordinary.

We wound higher and higher, the car climbing toward the clouds, tires crunching over slush and gravel. Cedars loomed like divas. The air grew colder, the kind that presses through windows and settles deep into your bones.

Joseph’s jaw was set, focused. He wasn’t saying much just the occasional check-in, his words dropping like punctuation.

“Getting close.”

“You okay?”

“Need anything?”

Even Croce had gone silent. The radio was off now. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the heartbeat in my ears.

I watched the cliffs pass by in silence, the fog thickening like breath on a mirror. It reminded me of Alaska mornings. Or maybe just my Kurosawa dreams where snow and spirit blur, and nothing can be explained.

The road narrowed as we climbed, carved into the edge of the mountain like a scar. Snow appeared in scattered patches, soft and silencing. Every curve felt like a vesper uttered under breath. The trees leaned in, ancient and reverent, branches heavy with snow and longing.

Joseph drove like someone who’d done this before. Many, many times. Hands relaxed, eyes forward, mind somewhere else because with a brain like his, it splits into parts. One on the wheel, steady as stone, the rest off chasing ghosts or running edits. Driving was muscle memory. The real action was happening somewhere behind his eyes. He hadn’t said much since we left the camp, and I hadn’t pushed. The silence between us wasn’t tense, it was like savasana. The kind you don’t break unless you really really have to.

The higher we climbed, the more the old town below faded. Jbeil, with its cobbled streets and ancient fishing village, slipped into shadow. Everything that felt like present-day society shrank to a distant blip. Down there, it was all stone, salt, and fables etched into the seaweed walls, the kind of place where time strolled instead of marched.

Up here, the night stretched ahead, black and bottomless, pulling us toward something older than memory. Something that had outlived its past and still stood, defiantly present. The kind of belief that survives wars and clichés, that outlasts borders, dictators, and laws.

And yet, I felt calm.

Not because I understood it.

But because I was starting to accept that maybe I didn’t need to.

A stone archway appeared up ahead, half swallowed by fog. Just beyond it, a flickering glow candles, torches maybe, or old Edison bulbs trying to imitate them. Joseph slowed the car and pulled over onto a quiet shoulder, the tires crunching against the gravel and snow.

He turned off the engine but left the heat running. Then he looked at me not with his usual mischief, not with flirtation or fatigue. But with something else. Something old. Something holy.

“You’ll be safe up here,” he said softly.

“Where are we?”

“Near Saint Charbel,” he nodded toward the stone steps, a faint smile tracing his lips. “His grave and shrine are just up ahead, follow the steps, then up the winding path. It’s tucked into the hillside, you’ll know when you’re close… the air shifts, and everything gets quiet.”

"Where are you going?" I asked, trying to sound casual, but the crackle in my voice gave me away.

"I’ll be near," he said gently. "Just down in the dormitory, with some of the monks. I’ll come find you when I’m done."

I raised an eyebrow, processing the sentence like it was totally normal.

“Oh cool, yeah, you know… just hanging out with monks. Classic.”
We stepped out of the car and quietly split, him toward the monks, me to the unknown. Two figures floating into the fog, like it had all been choreographed. He smirked but said nothing, disappearing into the shadows like he might return in a robe, chanting.

The moon lit the path like a spotlight at a concert. A stone building nestled into the snowy hillside, chimney smoke curling into the mist like whispered gossip. Candlelight flickered behind stained glass, casting golden shapes that danced like fireflies with messages.

And Joseph was right. The air shifted. It felt ancient, prayed into. The place wasn’t just sacred; it was sentient. Watching. Waiting.

And then, like a dropped stitch in time, I was somewhere else entirely.
Back at the old golf course near my childhood home, beneath the willow trees that cradled our afternoons like green cathedrals. Erika and I used to climb them like they were ladders to other worlds. Gnarled and ancient, those trees reached out like wise old bruja women with arms full of stories. We’d crawl into their limbs and disappear for hours, draping ourselves in sun-filtered light and daydreams.

We made wreaths from vines and moss and little yellow sticky flowerweeds, crowned ourselves queens of nowhere. Our thrones were branches. Our scepters, sticks. We talked about life like it was a five-speed sports car. Erika said she was already in fourth gear, gliding, ice blue eyes wide open. I told her I felt stuck in third, waiting for the shift but never quite getting there.

“Do you think most people live their whole lives in third?” I asked once, legs swinging high above the water.

She didn’t answer right away. She just looked down at the pond where the beavers were building their own castles while chewing, stacking, weaving and completely content. Watching us, maybe. Or maybe we were watching them.

Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but certain.

“Yeah… most do. They stay in third, their whole lives where it is safe, steady, predictable. But not you. Not me. We don’t stick around in third. We barely last in fifth.”

She glanced over, eyes glinting with something between warning and wonder.

“People like us, we outgrow the vehicle, hell we need rockets, April. You’re headed somewhere most people can’t even imagine, let alone reach. Not in this lifetime, anyway.”

That moment lived in the folds of my memory, somewhere soft and deep. I hadn’t touched it in years. Not since she had died. Erika, my compass, my chaos twin, my cliff-jumping copilot, gone too soon in a way that still didn’t make sense when I said it out loud.

But tonight, the mountain was holding it for me, cradling it in candlelight and snow and the strange warmth of a place that didn’t need words to say what it knew.

Then, without warning, a black bird sliced through the night. It swooped low, fast and fierce, its wings whispering inches from my face like a warning or a blessing, I couldn’t really tell which.

And just like that, I was snapped back out of the folds of memory, out of Erika’s voice echoing like a spell across decades, just as the black bird’s cry split the night sky, sharp enough to slice time itself.

Her words weren’t just nostalgia. They were prophecy.

I was no longer in third. I was already burning through fifth.
And this moment, this man, this mountain, was just the launchpad.

I nodded, slow and steady, a little unsure, then turned toward where the Saint lay.

The cold kissed my cheeks, but the wind had stilled. My boots crunched softly over the fresh snow as I climbed the hill. Each step felt heavier, like gravity pressed harder here. Or maybe it was just older.

The shrine revealed itself slowly, wood, stone, and light. The hush of holiness hung in the air like drenched air. This wasn’t a place you entered. It was a place you remembered.

The door opened without a sound.

Inside, it smelled of cedar, wax, and heavy incense. Smoke clung to the pews like dew. A few people knelt in silence, heads bowed, hands clasped. Candles flickered in small pools of melted devotion. I stepped in slowly, like I was trespassing in someone else’s dream.

And maybe I was.

At the front of the room stood a single icon of Saint Charbel, his dark hood pulled low over his thoughtful eyes. There was something in his gaze still, patient and infinite. Like he’d been waiting. Like he already knew everything I hadn’t said.

I struck a match and lit one of the small candles near his feet. Not for a wish. Not for a miracle. Just to hear.

There was something about this place, about him, that didn’t ask for belief so much as surrender. Saint Charbel’s grave, sealed in time for over two centuries, still felt alive. It filled the air like Thoreau’s Walden Pond or Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Quiet, vast, and full of something unnamed.

I hadn’t expected much. Maybe a flicker of peace. Maybe not even that. But as the flame took hold, something inside me cracked. Swiftly.

I wasn’t born Catholic. I wasn’t anything, really. Not in the checkbox sense.

But in that moment, surrounded by wax, wood, and quiet devotion, I believed in something. Or at least in the possibility of being seen.

Maybe I was still worth saving.

Time here didn’t pass. It hovered. Thick and sacred. A hush that wrapped around my shoulders like a shawl. I wasn’t sure how long I stood there. Minutes? Hours? The fog outside had thickened, and the cold began to press its way through my coat and into my bones. But still I lingered.

Then, slowly, awareness returned.
Joseph.

Where was he?

A knot of worry bloomed beneath my ribs. What if something had happened?
I started down the steps, heart racing quietly against the smallness of my steps. Everything felt frozen in place.

I passed the car. It sat alone, dusted lightly with inches of snow. Empty. Waiting. The fog coiled around the trees like a question mark. I should’ve stayed. I knew that. But something tugged at me curiosity, concern, maybe just the raw ache of not knowing.

The dormitory couldn’t be that far… right? Or was this some kind of ruse?

The deeper I walked, the less certain I became.

Where do monks even hang out together, anyway? Is there like… a lounge? A holy break room?

I headed downhill, almost to the road, when a faint light caught my eye. Just enough to reveal the outline of a building. Maybe a dormitory. Hopefully a dormitory. But something about it felt off. Too still. The kind of stillness that didn’t feel earned. It felt staged. Like the quiet itself was on patrol.

I told myself they were monks. Definitely monks. Not militia.
Monks with bedtime routines and herbal tea. Not rifles. Not interrogation rooms.
I whispered it again, just to hear something human.

Worst case, I crash a silent retreat and get escorted out by a guy in sandals.
Best case, I find Joseph and we pretend none of this was weird at all.

But then I got closer.
And the door in front of me told a different story. It was thick and worn, carved with symbols I couldn’t place. The windows were small and dark. No sound came from inside. Not even a creak.

Maybe this wasn’t where monks gathered. Maybe it wasn’t a dormitory at all. Maybe I was the only one who didn’t know what this place really was.

My brain flipped through every spy movie and conspiracy doc I’d ever fallen asleep to. I knew how ridiculous this all sounded. But the same part of me that had trusted Joseph with no map, no address, no last name was now whispering something I couldn’t ignore.

What if?

I took a step forward. The snow cracked under my boot.
And then, behind the door, something shifted.

I told myself I would just peek. Just enough to see where he had gone. Just enough to know he was okay.

That was all. The same lie Robert Johnson probably told himself at the Crossroads. Just one more step into the unknown. Just one more bargain to make those strings sing.

I pushed the door open.

It gave way without a sound, like it had been waiting.

Inside, the air changed. Warmer. Thicker. It clung to my skin—cedar, body odor, and something faintly metallic. Not fresh blood. The memory of it. The kind that lives in the walls long after the stain is gone.

A hallway stretched ahead, lit by trembling sconces. The floor sloped downward, gently but deliberately, like it was guiding me into something I wasn’t supposed to find.

The saints on the walls watched me pass. Some with faces worn smooth by time. Others were missing entirely, like they had looked away.

Then I heard it.

A low, broken growl. Not an animal. A voice. Another followed. Sharper. Then the scrape of wood against stone. A chair being dragged. Fast.

I turned left, heart pounding, breath shallow, and crept toward a room where light danced across the floor in uneven waves. The door was cracked. Fire flames spilled through it, orange and angry.

I stayed low. Pressed to the wall. Breath held.

Inside, Joseph stood locked in a standoff with a man who looked like he had crawled out of a century of war. One arm gone. His robes hung loose around his shoulders, but he moved like they weighed nothing. His beard was thick, wild, streaked with ash. One eye glared. The other, pale and dead, stared into nothing.

He didn’t wear a patch. He didn’t need to.

They were arguing in Arabic. I couldn’t understand a single word, but the tone said everything. This wasn't a debate. This was a duel with words.

The monk slammed the table. Slivers of wood exploded into the air. Joseph didn’t flinch.

He stepped in closer.

The monk laughed. Not the kind of laugh you’d ever want aimed at you. It was the kind that knew too much. The kind that echoed evil.

Then it all stopped.

Something cold slipped from my wrist. My bracelet. It hit the stone with a sound that cut through the silence like a gunshot.

Both of them turned.

The monk’s good eye locked onto mine. Wide. Eerie. He didn’t blink.

Joseph lunged toward me. His voice shot out in Arabic, harsh and furious. I couldn’t understand what he was saying but it wasn’t kind. It was a warning. A command.

What had I just done?

What had I walked into?

What was Joseph hiding?

And why, in this sacred mountain wrapped in silence and saints...

Was the door now closing behind me?