Ghlala
Once upon a time, in the old days, goodness was everywhere.
A feather could outweigh the scales,
the blind leapt over walls and fences,
and the elder crossed valleys with ease.
The harvest fed the tribe and nourished the neighbors.
So it was, until it was no more.
In a far-off village, with no name or address,
there lived a girl called Ghlala.
She grew up in a poor family:
a sick, frail mother,
a destitute father,
and little brothers who were too young and too hungry.
If they had breakfast, they went without lunch,
and if they had lunch, they went without supper.
In short, poverty was their companion—day and night.
But Ghlala was beautiful.
Neither poverty made her miserable, nor hunger made her sad.
Her hair was long and black as the night,
her eyes shone like pure honey,
her spirit was light and gentle.
The village girls envied her beauty,
and envy only destroys the one who carries it.
One year, the river flooded and swept over the village,
destroying crops and livestock.
In Ghlala’s house, nothing was left to eat, neither for the old nor the young.
Her sick mother died,
and sorrow piled upon poverty.
Laughter left their home,
replaced by tears and grief.
So the father decided to remarry, to bring a new mother into the house.
But this time he chose poorly.
Instead of a kind woman to care for the children,
she was a cruel stepmother, with no mercy in her heart.
Ghlala suffered most from her cruelty.
Blinded by jealousy, the woman gave her all the hard work:
fetching wood, carrying water, endless chores—
hoping her beauty would fade and her strength weaken.
But with every day, Ghlala only grew more radiant.
At last, the cruel woman had only two choices: to sicken her or to kill her.
On a freezing winter day, she sent Ghlala into the forest for firewood,
and followed her.
When Ghlala reached the heart of the forest, fog fell.
The stepmother saw her chance:
she struck Ghlala on the head with a stone,
dug a quick grave, buried her, and rejoiced.
No one saw the hole, no witness saw the crime—
but she forgot that God sees all.
Ghlala awoke.
In front of her was a hideous face.
She screamed.
But the monster smiled and said:
“Do not fear, Ghlala.
You are not in your grave, and I am not the angel of death.
I saw what the cruel woman did to you.
I waited until the forest was empty, the fog thick, and then I brought you here.
You are safe with me.”
Ghlala, still trembling, asked:
“Who are you, my lord—are you the Ghoul?”
The monster smiled again:
“Yes, I am a ghoul.
But unlike her, I have never harmed a soul.
I have lived in this forest since ancient times.”
“Where am I?” she asked.
“This place knows no night nor day.”
“This,” he said, “is an old dried well.
The water left long ago,
so I sealed it and made it my home.”
Ghlala grew frightened.
“You sealed it? Then no one can hear me if you mean to harm me.”
The ghoul replied:
“Child, I told you—I never harmed a creature.
If I had wished to hurt anyone, I would have harmed her first.
I want you to stay with me, to be my companion.
The darkness of this well is kinder than her darkness.
If you return to her, she will only return you to the grave.”
Little by little, Ghlala’s fear faded.
She agreed to stay—though she warned she might not remain forever.
The ghoul was overjoyed. At last, he had company.
One day, she noticed a sealed door in the well.
She asked about it.
The ghoul’s voice grew harsh:
“Not that door! It leads to neither clear night nor bright day.
Whoever seeks its light dies in its deceit.”
Ghlala, clever and cautious, kept silent.
Days passed.
She grew accustomed to the ghoul.
He treated her kindly, gave her food, clothes, gentle words.
In time, she forgot her thoughts of escape.
But the door haunted her mind.
One day, curiosity won.
She pushed it open.
A long, dark tunnel stretched ahead.
She lit a candle and walked.
At last, she saw a blinding light in the distance.
Her heart leapt. Light!
After so long in darkness, this was like a dream.
But she hurried back, closed the door, and pretended nothing had happened.
That evening, the ghoul brought her gifts:
olive oil that would make her feet shine like gold,
black ash to make her eyes sparkle like jewels,
and red clay that would keep her hands forever youthful.
At first, Ghlala thought this was punishment for opening the door.
But when she tried them, she saw her reflection transformed:
she shone like a celestial beauty, more radiant than ever.
The ghoul had told her the truth.
Still, the door called to her.
The next day, when the ghoul left, she opened it again.
She followed the tunnel until she reached the light—
and found a hidden paradise.
A garden full of flowers, birds, and butterflies,
a stream flowing through.
She ran, laughed, bathed her braids in the water.
For the first time since childhood, she felt alive.
In the distance stood a grand palace.
Women sang and danced as they approached it.
Afraid, Ghlala hid in the grass, then returned to the well before the ghoul came back.
From then on, whenever the ghoul left, she would slip away to the garden,
running, playing, drinking from the stream—
and return before he noticed.
One day, the prince of the land was out hunting.
He stopped by the stream to drink,
and there he found a golden strand of Ghlala’s hair floating on the water.
He lifted it and swore:
“Whoever owns this hair must be the fairest in the land.
I will search every home, knock on every door, until I find her.”
He returned to his palace and ordered his men to seek her.
Word spread of a mysterious maiden who came to the garden each day.
The prince decided to wait for her himself.
That morning, the ghoul felt ill and did not leave the well.
But Ghlala, kind at heart, decided to tend to him first...