The Grey Titans
A Re-telling of Ojibway Legend
The Sleeping Giant
The Migrant:
After 15-hours of flying from Istanbul to Toronto, Amirah’s love for architecture and engineering had not diminished. She intently watched as the plane’s wing neatly
dissected the clouds gently offering the city below. Amirah quickly closed her eyes forever preserving the image deep into her mind. Building memories became a needed pastime for Amirah. It offered her a temporary distraction from the unrelenting torment that resided in not just her mind but her heart as well.
“You are so lucky,” she remembered her best friend Yasmin saying as she packed her satchel a mere one day ago in Syria. She stopped and turned sharply to say, “It has nothing to do with luck. Luck is for fools who don’t create their own opportunities.” She didn’t want to hurt her friend, but these were the words delivered by her mother months earlier. Turning back to her task she reminded herself — nothing was simple any more. Luck had been replaced by the torment of complexity and fear.
Continuing to gaze out over the wingspan, Amirah ruminated on her tremendous love and respect for her mother. The same woman who sang her songs and read her stories as a young child; was also the only woman to hold a minister’s portfolio in Damascus parliament. A monumental achievement in war-torn Syria. As a minister in a divisive and corrupt government, she brokered power between the Ba’ath party and the Independents — soon to be called rebels. Her mother’s ability to appease both sides was the sole reason Amirah and her family were able to leave for Canada. But there was a heavy price to be paid for this freedom.
On the night before her departure, Amirah’s father came to her bed as she prepared for sleep. Holding her close he retold the sacrifice her mother had already committed to for the sake of saving her family. As a minister she would need to remain in Syria amongst public executions, bombings and jihadist beheadings. Sworn to never relinquish any information regarding who guided them out of Syria on route to their new home in Canada. Any leak would amount to her mother’s torture and ultimate death.
Breaking her thought, she noticed the plane coming to a long halt as an undecipherable voice above her garbled something in English. Amirah quickly disregarded the distortion as she was grabbed back into her memory and unable to move from her seat. A tear left her eye even before she felt its cold journey down her cheek. Her father noticed her state and knew her thoughts were back in Syria. Leaning into her he whispers, “Your mother believed that our freedom was the ultimate gift of love.” She broke from her trance and muttered, “But father, how can a gift be so painful?
— -
The Herald:
As she read, Amirah heard a loud knock at the front door. There stood a pretty lady and a scruffy man. One gripping a video camera. The other a microphone. The sight of media frightened her, as it did back in Syria. The kind lady whose house they shared, welcomed them in and immediately called for her father. After a quick discussion her father came over and said, “It’s important to tell our story Amirah. Your mother would have wanted this.” Amirah remembered from school the power of media and said, “Poppa, have you forgotten about mother’s pact with the police? They will know!”
“Do not worry my love,” her father confirmed. “Our faces will be blurred and our voices disguised. Your mother will be safe.” Trusting her father, Amirah reluctantly agreed to answer every question the pretty lady asked.
— -
The Patriot:
Deep within Damascus police headquarters, a media report was flagged coming in from Canada. A young constable became anxious and said “Lieutenant, I have something.”
“I hope it’s good,” the officer hissed as he looked at the TV monitor. The faces and voices were undistinguishable but at the very far right of the screen was a coffee stained coaster with the writing, TORONTO.
That evening in the basement, the minister, mother, wife and lover could hardly see past her nose with the amount of blood dripping from its end. Through the suffering, she spat, “I know nothing,” to her interrogator as he proceeded to take off his belt. The buckle clinked as it left his waist but she could no longer hear it as the fortune of silence and blackness presented itself and offered her a final rest.
With no information coming from her torture, the regime sends a police mole to Toronto to infiltrate the Syrian community and find the escaped refugees.
— -
The Wolf:
Once the mole has landed, he easily integrated into the refugee community and begins his hunt. Unfortunately, the inherent friendliness of Syrians had led the tyrant directly to Amirah’s father. Soon after, both disappeared without a trace.
— -
The Dissidents:
The mole returned to Damascus, alone, with the coaster as proof of the minister’s husband’s assassination. Putting it back into his pocket he dipped into a local restaurant. There his demise was swift at the hands of two ISIL jihadists who quickly determined a Ba’ath policeman as dispensable. After his execution, they easily disappeared down back-alleys as sectarian violence was common in Damascus and witnesses rare.
Almost out of the city, the jihadists encountered a high-ranking Kurdish rebel who wasted very little time ending their righteous campaign. As he stooped down to retrieve his bullet shells, the Kurd picked up a piece of round cardboard with the words TORONTO written across its face. Putting it into his pocket he returned to his hiding place waiting for his American contact knowing this intelligence would pay handsomely.
— -
The Monument:
On a bright and beautiful morning Amirah moves down her street welcoming the Toronto skyline as it rises from the pavement. Now an architectural engineer, Amirah is reminded of her parents every time she leaves her house. Those magnificent buildings she thinks to herself. Each grand structure meticulously logged into her memory from her first glance on the plane years ago. Looking at the two tallest, Amirah reminds herself, Momma, Poppa. You will always be my grey titans.
— -
Author’s Note: The preceding short fiction was an exercise in transitioning the Canadian Ojibway legend The Sleeping Giant to a modern-day setting. The greatest respect to its original telling was intended in this exercise.
