Welcome back to Up From Mountains! Researching for Chapter 5 of Up From Mountains sent me down such a glorious rabbit hole that I decided to share some of what I found before posting the next scene. I discovered a Kingston of the 1940s and 1950s that I had an inkling about but that turned out to be far richer than I imagined, a city that laid the foundation for ska, rocksteady, reggae, dub, and dancehall. They didn't just come out of nowhere.

Where Kingston Played

During this period, Jamaican hotels in general, and Kingston hotels in particular, helped establish the early music scene by demanding polished performances for tourists and uptown patrons. Myrtle Bank Hotel, owned and operated by Abe Issa at that time, was one of the city’s main upscale venues featuring big band and jazz orchestras, Latin dance music, and occasionally mento and calypso, all in a polished, hotel-friendly format. My mother, Dorothy Mahfood, née Calder, used to work at Myrtle Bank for a local tour company. She said that she and my father, Ken Mahfood, went to a couple of dances there, but they found it to be very expensive, so never returned. Up From Mountains will have a couple of scenes set at Myrtle Bank with Abe Issa making a cameo appearance.

Other upscale venues that attracted middle and upper income patrons and tourists were polished clubs like the Glass Bucket, the Silver Slipper, and the Colony Club. The atmosphere and music were similar to Myrtle Bank, but from time to time these clubs hosted major international acts like Sammy Davis Jr., Sarah Vaughan, and Cuban mambo king Pérez Prado.

The Glass Bucket holds a special place for me, as that’s where my parents first met. In a future chapter of Up From Mountains, Harry, the character based on my father, and Cailin, based on my mother, will meet at the Glass Bucket. That will be a fun chapter to write!

There were other clubs throughout uptown and East Kingston, in the same circuit as the Glass Bucket, that appealed to middle-income patrons. Upper middle-income patrons came to them from time to time, but tourists rarely ventured in. The music was similar to the upscale clubs, but these venues also embraced more experimental sounds, particularly bebop-style jazz that incorporated Afro-Caribbean beats.

In Chapter 5 here on Substack, I have Harry and Lilla at the Colony Club. After publishing it a week ago, something about it nagged at me. A bit more research told me that the Colony Club was on a similar class level as the Glass Bucket. That didn’t work for me. Lilla needed to take Harry somewhere she knew well but he didn’t, where she’d be in her comfort zone and he wouldn’t. So I changed the setting to Club Adastra in East Kingston, which is much more relaxed with local middle-income Jamaicans. Harry flows with it easily. It allows them to figuratively loosen their ties, which Lilla literally does to Harry, opening them up to be themselves with one another.

A few miles downtown, though, a very different Kingston was finding its own way to dance.

Further downtown and in West Kingston, the nightlife moved to a completely different beat. Working-class Kingstonians danced in small halls like Forrester's Hall and in open-air "yards," moving to small live bands or street-level sound systems. The sound system itself, pioneered by Hedley Jones in the late 1940s, was a Kingston invention that would eventually change music culture around the world. Most working-class Kingstonians couldn’t afford records or even a radio, so this was their free alternative. They danced to American R&B, jump blues, jazz, mento, and calypso.

These informal venues became the incubators of a sound-system culture that would saturate Kingston’s nightlife in the 1960s and 1970s and eventually spread around the globe. As a teenager in the early 1970s, I remember one of these sound systems in uptown Kingston, at the junction of Shortwood Road and Upper Waterloo Road, or somewhere near there. The music was for everyone to enjoy, even if uptowners didn’t appreciate its significance. By the 1970s, instead of R&B and jump blues, it was roots reggae and dub blasting out of the stacked speakers!

The People Behind the Music

What made all of those venues come alive, from the Myrtle Bank ballroom to the yards of West Kingston, was an extraordinary generation of Jamaican musicians. In the 1940s and 1950s, Kingston was overflowing with top-notch musicians drawn from Alpha Boys’ School, other school bands, military bands, churches, and self-taught individuals.

Alpha Boys’ School, in particular, is noteworthy for the quantity and quality of musicians it produced: Don Drummond, Joe Harriott, Tommy McCook, and Dizzy Reece, among many others. Several of its graduates went on to form the ska-famous Skatalites.

The musicians I chose for Chapter 5 speak to the range of talent Kingston produced. Baba Motta was professionally trained and led his own orchestra. Ernest Ranglin was self-taught and went on to profoundly influence the development of ska and reggae in the 1960s and 1970s. And Don Drummond, whose name kept appearing everywhere I looked, influenced not just Jamaican jazz but Jamaican music as a whole.

Drummond used to date a relative of mine, Anita “Margarita” Mahfood, who performed in many Kingston nightclubs, including the Glass Bucket. Theirs was a tragic relationship that I may explore in a short story or another novel one day.

The other two musicians in Chapter 5, Stick Man and Bigga, while fictional, feel authentic to that period in Kingston and will show up in another chapter of Up From Mountains.

The music that influenced these Kingston musicians was varied. Besides the precision many of them learned in marching bands, they played in large American-style big band swing ensembles as well as smaller jazz, R&B, and bebop quartets and quintets. They absorbed American tunes through imported records, sheet music, and local radio.

On a clear night, those who could afford radios picked up AM signals from Miami to New Orleans to Memphis. And what came through those speakers influenced both Jamaican musicians and the public profoundly.

Latin music, particularly that of Pérez Prado, “King of Mambo,” also reached Jamaican shores, as did the Afro-Cuban jazz innovations of Dizzy Gillespie. The Glass Bucket, the Silver Slipper, and the Myrtle Bank Hotel ballroom all promoted Mambo Nights, weaving Latin music into their regular programming.

Mento, a Jamaican homegrown genre, grew out of the musical traditions of enslaved Africans brought to Jamaica. African rhythms blended over time with British folk and dance styles, and perhaps some Spanish and Caribbean influences. Though rooted in rural Jamaica, mento found its way into hotels, where it was marketed to tourists, and into the yards and dance halls of Downtown and West Kingston, where it mixed freely with R&B and jump blues.

Both local Jamaicans and tourists also enjoyed Trinidadian calypso. Unfortunately, because of North American tourist marketing, much Caribbean music, including mento, was simply labeled calypso. Even Harry Belafonte titled his mento album, Calypso, further confusing Trinidadian calypso music with Jamaican mento. Although some have debated whether mento is a subgenre of calypso, most musicologists consider them separate genres. Both, however, are rooted in the African rhythms brought to the Caribbean by enslaved Africans.

It was a combination of American R&B, particularly jump blues, mento, jazz, and perhaps a touch of calypso that eventually sparked the ska scene in 1959.

Even though I’ve only touched lightly on what I’ve learned over the past few weeks, it should be evident that Kingston was a vibrant, swinging capital in the 1940s and 1950s. It should be no surprise, then, that it punched so far above its weight in the 1960s and 1970s, giving the world ska, rocksteady, reggae, dub, and dancehall—genres that continue to shape popular music around the world.

I find this kind of in-depth research essential for writing Up From Mountains (or any historical fiction) in order to paint an authentic picture of Kingston’s Golden Age. As with any writer worth their salt, I have to know far more about the setting and characters than I will ever include in the story. It’s time-consuming, but I wouldn’t have it any other way!

Next week, I should be posting the first scene in Chapter 6. That’s if I don’t get carried down another rabbit hole!

In the meantime, if you haven’t begun reading Up From Mountains, start here:

Start reading Up From Mountains

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Sources:

“Alpha Roll Call: 5 Bands and Their Influence on Jamaican Music” – Alpha Boys School Radio – https://www.alphaboysschoolradio.com/post/alpha-5-bands

“American Rhythm and Blues Influence on Early Jamaican Musical …” – UVM essay (The University of Vermont) – https://www.uvm.edu/~debate/dreadlibrary/fredericks.html

“Beat Street a game changer: Exploring Kingston as a global Musical …” – The Gleaner – https://past.jamaica-gleaner.com/article/entertainment/20221127/beat-street-game-changer

“Dance hall (Jamaican)” – Wikipedia – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dance_hall_(Jamaican)

“How Jamaica’s 1950s DJs Gave Rise to Their Counterparts on the …” – Vanity Fair – https://www.vanityfair.com/style/story/excerpt-jamaica-djs-gave-rise-to-disco-hip-hop

“Mento v calypso” – Jamaica Observer – https://www.jamaicaobserver.com/2023/01/11/mento-v-calypso/

“Sound of a City: roots and revolution in Kingston, Jamaica” – Far Out Magazine – https://faroutmagazine.co.uk/sound-of-a-city-kingston-jamaica/

“The History and Impact of Jamaican Mento Music” – Reggae Genealogy – https://reggaegenealogy.org/2024/01/11/the-history-and-impact-of-jamaican-mento-music/

“The History of Jamaican Music 1959–1973” – Jammin’ Reggae Archives – https://niceup.com/history/ja_music_59-73.html

“The Complete History Of Ska Music: From Jamaica To New England …” – YouTube –

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In the previous scene, Harry and Lilla settled in at their table for two, where a waiting microphone and Don Drummond’s trombone turned their first date into something neither of them planned for. Now the music plays on, the night grows quieter, and two people who barely know each other find themselves telling the truth. What begins as a question about singing becomes an exchange of passions, secrets, and finally, a poem.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or previous posts, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Post

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments about Harry and Lilla, and about the moments on a first date when the conversation shifts from small talk into something you didn’t expect to say.

Chapter 5.3 - Harry & Lilla: Perhaps I Do

Harry let his eyes drift around the club. He remarked to Lilla, “The atmosphere’s changed. It’s like the main party is over and now only friends are left.”

“Exactly.” Lilla sat forward. “That’s why I come here—the raw music, and an intimacy you can’t plan.”

He turned to her. “You’re really a wonderful singer. Where did you learn to sing like that?”

She sat back. “When I was young, I used to sing at family gatherings and pujas—religious gatherings, mostly. That’s where I realized I could hold a crowd’s attention. Then at St. Andrew High, I sang choir solos. That encouraged me to enter the Vere Johns Opportunity Hour. I’ll never forget. It was at the Palace Theatre. The crowd’s applause electrified me. And I won a cash prize, collected from the audience—£4 19s 5d. I was also offered a recording contract. But my mother and aunt made me turn it down, saying a career in singing was not for a respectable young lady.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry said, catching himself immediately after.

She smiled. “Well, I think my aunt was more concerned about her standing in the Indian community than anything else. And since I’ve had to live with her from the time I attended St. Andrew, my mother had to give in to her.”

She paused, looking at her drink, then added, “There is a silver lining, though. A friend I went to school with, whose father is the manager at the Glass Bucket, told me her father wanted to offer me a job there when I graduated from high school.”

She picked up her drink. “I suppose I discovered I could sing and grew into it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So, your mother and aunt now approve of your singing career?”

“Not quite.” Her eyes dropped for a moment. “But I’ve gotten around that. As I told you and your father, I’m attending the University College, so to sing at the Glass Bucket I have to tell them a small fib. They think I study with classmates at night.”

“Oh.” Harry took a drag on his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke. “And where do they think you are now?”

“On a date with Harry Najem of Najem and Sons.” She slapped his arm playfully. “Enough about me. What is your passion?”

Harry leaned back and took another drag from his cigarette. After exhaling, he said, “Well, I have two passions. One has been shot down, and unlike you, I found no way around it.”

“What’s that?”

“I wanted to be an engineer, but my father wanted me to be a doctor. In a Lebanese family, no two sons can have the same profession. It’s like going to Knutsford Park Race Track and spreading your bets on different horses rather than one. Since my older brother is already an engineer, I was sent to McGill to study medicine. But I dropped out after a year.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t for me.”

She put her hand on his arm briefly. “I’m sorry to hear that. I did sense friction between you that day.”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.”

He took a long pull on his cigarette, letting the smoke drift up as Drummond drew out a dark and searching note. Baba Motta had moved to the bongos where he mixed a cocktail—part Latin, part mento, part something only heard in Kingston.

Leaning close to Lilla, Harry brightened and said, “There is my second passion, though.”

She leaned in, smiling. “Yes. What is it?”

“Poetry.” He looked at her as if to read her.

“Really?” Her smile gave way to a laugh. “I’m on a date with a poet?”

“Not exactly. Let’s say I’m a lover of poetry, and I dabble in it. What about you? Do you like it?”

“Honestly, I never paid enough attention in English class. I couldn’t tell you the title of a poem if my life depended on it.”

“Fair enough.”

“But now that I’m a professional singer, I do think more about the words I’m singing. They matter to me now.” She looked at him. “Do you have a favorite poem memorized?”

“I do.”

“Would you recite it for me?”

“Right here?” He looked around.

“Right now.”

Harry looked around the club again. The band was still deep in “Body and Soul,” so no one was dancing. They were either seated at their tables talking or standing at the bar nursing their drinks, listening to the band.

He sat up, drank the last of his Red Stripe, then began.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

Lilla sat silent for a few seconds, staring at Harry as though there was nothing else around them—no music, no smoke in the air, no people—until Harry broke the spell.

“Don’t keep me in suspense. What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful.” She exhaled slowly. “And you recited it as if you knew the girl in the poem.”

He held her gaze. “Perhaps I do.”

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• Lilla lies to her family so she can sing at the Glass Bucket. Harry dropped out of McGill rather than become what his father wanted him to be. Does this scene successfully reveal Harry and Lilla’s vulnerabilities while still presenting them as strong characters?

• Harry recites “She Walks in Beauty” in the middle of a jazz club, and three words close the evening. What is it about poetry, spoken aloud in the right moment, that says what ordinary conversation can't?

• By the end of this scene, does the evening feel complete, or does it feel like something is lacking?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

If you enjoyed this post, please hit the ♡ button and consider subscribing to get my future posts delivered to your inbox.

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In the previous scene, Harry and Lilla hit the dance floor at the Colony Royal Club, where the evening took an unexpected turn backstage. Now we settle in at their table for two, where planter's punch, a waiting microphone, and Don Drummond's trombone conspire to turn a first date into something neither of them planned for.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or previous post, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Post

I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments about Lilla, and about what it feels like to watch someone really step into their element for the first time.

Chapter 5.2 - Harry & Lilla: Body and Soul

Stepping back into the club, Harry asked Lilla, “What did Baba Motta say to you?” He paused, then smiled and said, “Are you meeting him for a rendezvous later?”

“You’ll just have to wait to find out.” She looked over at him, smiling. “In any case, let’s go back to the table. My lips need a touchup.”

At their table for two, Harry pulled out the chair for Lilla.

“Thank you, sir.” She sat and reached for her evening bag.

“Can I get you another planter’s punch?” He asked.

“No thanks. I limit myself to one alcoholic drink an evening.”

“That’s no fun.”

“A girl has to have her wits about her, Mr. Najem.”

“You’re absolutely right, Miss James. What can I get you then?”

“A Canada Dry will do, thank you.”

“Coming right up.”

Returning from the bar with a ginger ale and a Red Stripe beer, Harry sat down. “I see your lips are duly touched up.”

“Thanks for noticing, but, sorry to say, it’s not for you.”

He pulled his head back, his hand to his chest. “I would never have thought such a thing.”

The two continued in this playful banter until the band was back at their instruments and Baba was running his fingers lightly across the keys, signaling a turn in the evening. The other musicians joined in one by one as though jumping into a slow-moving group double dutch jump rope session.

The patrons, sitting at their tables, swayed unconsciously to the nostalgic notes.

Baba nodded, and Lilla stood. Turning to Harry, she raised her eyebrows with a slight smile, then walked slowly toward the bandstand, as if they would have to wait for her.

She stepped up onto the bandstand, stood in front of the waiting microphone, and sang the opening lines of Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust.”

While a few couples drifted onto the floor to slow dance, Lilla reminded herself she was on a first date. She purposely chose not to look at Harry as she sang, except for a couple of glances, and each time his attention was fully on her.

As Baba played the closing chord, he spoke into the microphone, “Let’s hear it for the lovely Lilla James!”

Lilla bowed and blew a kiss to the audience.

Harry rose to his feet, the last in the audience to finish applauding.

When she got back to their table, Harry greeted her. “Bravo! You did the song justice.”

She thanked him, reaching for her drink.

They sat quietly for a moment before the band eased into “Body and Soul,” a classic improvisational bebop favorite. Bigga held down the song, his bass walking a steady line. Stickman rode his cymbals with a shimmering pulse. Ranglin’s clean, attentive finger work turned melodic at times, clipped and syncopated at others. Baba’s keys struck sharp, unexpected chords, while weaving invented phrases into unfilled spaces. Drummond blew dark and slow, at times leaning into a note just longer than the audience expected.

“See,” Lilla turned to Harry. “Didn’t I tell you Don reaches right into your soul?”

Harry, entranced by Drummond, nodded.

Lilla reached over and loosened his tie. “We’re in another world now.”

He turned and smiled. “Yes, we are.” Then he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

Note: The Colony Club evening is not over yet. I’ll post the final scene for Chapter 5 next week.

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• Harry is the last in the audience to stop applauding. What does that single detail tell you about where he will be by the end of the evening?

• We’ve known Lilla was a singer, but this is the first time we’ve seen her step into her element. What does watching someone do the thing they were made to do reveal about them that nothing else can?

• Don Drummond says nothing and plays only a few notes, yet he leaves the deepest impression in the room. How does a writer use silence and restraint to make a character unforgettable?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

Read the Final Scene of the Chapter

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In the previous installment, we paused with Harry over his father, Bashir's poem, verses that conjure Lebanon's mountains, cedars, and the fragile harmony of its people. Now we step outside that quiet world entirely and follow him to Kingston’s Colony Club on his first date with Lilla. They take to the dance floor, and the evening turns into something Harry doesn’t expect. What begins as a date becomes an introduction to some of Kingston's finest musicians and a quiet revelation about the woman Harry is falling for.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or previous post, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Post

I'm looking forward to your thoughts in the comments about first impressions and what it means when someone pulls you through a door without knocking.

Chapter 5.1 - Harry & Lilla: Stompin’ at the Colony Club

With the last notes of Chick Webb’s “Stompin’ at the Savoy,” Harry spun Lilla out then caught her, her midnight-blue dress flaring and falling as the crowd applauded. They laughed together and bowed, as if the crowd were cheering them.

Sitting behind the piano, smoky amber light playing across him, the bandleader announced they’d be taking a short break, then would pick back up with the late evening set.

The Colony Club was Lilla’s suggestion when Harry had called. A little more “We’re here for the music” and less “Here to see and be seen,” like the Glass Bucket.

“And I was just getting warmed up,” Harry said, palms open, as if she’d broken the bad news herself

“Come on,” Lilla looped her arm through Harry’s. “We’ve been dancing for an hour straight. You’re more than warmed up.” She led him off the dance floor. “You were warmed up before you even stepped on the floor. Where’d you learn to dance like that, Harry?”

“The same place you must’ve.” He smiled at her.

She laughed, lips red, pressing her side against his arm.

She stopped and looked at him. “You know what? Let me introduce you to the band.”

“You know them.” Harry’s eyes widened.

“Sure. That’s why I suggested coming here. Come on!” Lilla took him by the hand, pulling him.

They made their way back to the side door next to the stage.

Harry stopped. “Are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely. I’ve sung on stage at one time or another with all of them.”

Without knocking, Lilla opened the door and entered.

Two of the band members were sitting on a couch. The other three were gathered around the table, leaning in to share a light.

“Boys, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine.” She pulled Harry into the room. “This is Harry Najem.”

The slim man, dressed to the nines, who’d been on the drums, said, “That’s no friend. The way you two were out there on the dance floor. He’s more like your dance instructor.” He laughed, then took a drag of his cigarette.

“Harry, that’s Stick Man. He’s fast on the drums and a fast talker, so be warned.”

Stick Man addressed Harry, “Good to meet you. Your family must own the store on King Street.”

Harry shook his hand. “Yes, that’s my father’s store.”

“You sure?” The sign says Najem and Sons. So it’s your store too!”

Lilla jumped in. “I warned you , Harry.”

She turned to the bandleader. “This is the exceptionally talented Baba Motta. Pianist, trumpeter, and bongos when needed.”

Baba nodded his head, and Harry shook his hand.

“Next is Ernest Ranglin, a master at the guitar. He’s always sensitive to what the soloist needs.”

Another nod and a handshake.

She turned to the couch. “Then there’s Don, Don Drummond, from the prestigious Alpha Boys School band. He plays the trombone like he feels your pain.”

The man she was referring to wore a fedora and polished his trombone with a yellow chamois cloth. He didn’t respond, except to raise his instrument to his lips and play three haunting notes.

Harry stood looking from Don to Lilla.

Breaking the awkwardness, Lilla said, “I’ve saved my favorite for last. “She turned to the other band members. “Sorry, fellows, but you know I have a soft spot for Bigga.”

Stick Man sucked his teeth. “Is nothing new.”

Lilla turned to the second man on the couch, who was quite large. “This is Bigga, whose double bass keeps the rest of them from floating out the room with their solos.”

Sitting beside him on the couch, she kissed his cheek.

Bigga smiled, but said nothing.

“Is how you bashful so.” Stick Man hollered, “Give the gal a kiss!”

Bigga ignored him and thanked Lilla.

Before Lilla and Harry left backstage, Baba called her over and whispered something to her.

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• What moment in this scene shifted your first impression of either Harry or Lilla?

• Lilla describes each musician with a single defining phrase: fast on the drums, sensitive to the soloist, plays like he feels your pain. What do those descriptions tell us about Lilla as much as the musicians?

• Harry spends much of this scene being led — off the dance floor, through the door, into introductions. How does a character remain compelling when they’re not the one in control?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

Read the Next Scene

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In Chapter 4, scene 2, Harry discovers nine poems his father Bashir wrote in Arabic and asks his cousin Fadi to translate them, without his father knowing. Fadi agrees but warns he can’t do them justice in English, so Harry, who carries a worn copy of Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage everywhere, promises to “polish them up,” filtering his father’s Arabic elegies through the Romantic literary period sensibility he’s learned from Byron.

In this first poem, Harry imagines his father summoning the ghost of Lebanon itself: the mountains, the cedars, the cities, the precarious harmony of Druze, Muslims, and Christians living together. He doesn’t yet understand that these aren’t just nostalgic verses. They’re marthiya, classical Arabic elegies traditionally composed to mourn profound loss and commemorate those who have died.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or previous scenes, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Scene

I’m looking forward to your thoughts in the comments about memory, homeland, and the stories our fathers kept locked inside them.

The Glory of Mount Lebanon

The Glory of Lebanon, visit me,

Welcome Spectre, sing me your eulogy.

Sing of mountains, coastlands, and valley beds:

Tiered slopes applauding snowcapped mountain heads,

White rough cliffs governing ancient sea spreads,

Broad valleys guiding vital watersheds.

Chant trees and rocks, sacred sylvan houses:

Ancient olive groves surround stone manses,

Mulberry trees house birds in their branches,

Holy cedars, honor their Temple muses.

Echo through city and village and town:

In Beirut and Ehden and Marjayoun,

My people, Druze and Muslim and Christian,

Living together in measured union.

The glory of Lebanon visits me,

Now, Spectre, sing me your elegy.

Behind the Translation

In reality, I’m writing these poems in English first, then working with an Arabic poet to translate them into classical marthiya form. Just as Harry translates forward to make his father’s words accessible, I’m reaching back into a language and poetic tradition I’m trying to honor. Both are acts of love across language, culture, and time.

Throughout Up From Mountains, the nine poems will appear between chapters, each revealing more of Bashir’s unspoken past. In the final published novel, each Arabic poem will appear on the left spread with the corresponding English poem on the right.

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• I’m still open to tweaking the poem. Any constructive feedback on it?

• What images or lines from the poem resonate most with you?

• What do you think Harry might discover as he translates the remaining eight poems?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

Read the Next Chapter

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In the first scene of Chapter 4, we sat with the Najem family at dinner. Now we move upstairs to Harry’s bedroom, where he and Fadi continue their conversation in private. What starts as teasing about Artie’s escapades quickly turns serious when Harry mentions a new girl he’s met—one who’s captured his attention in a way that could upend his place in Kingston’s tight-knit Lebanese community. As the two young men navigate questions of family loyalty, social expectations, and personal desire, Harry finds himself drawn once again to his worn copy of Lord Byron, and to a secret hidden in his father’s study.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or previous scenes, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Scene

I'm looking forward to your thoughts in the comments about loyalty, desire, and the hidden worlds our fathers carry within them.

Chapter 4.2 - Harry: Words That Hang in the Air - Part 2

“Where’s Artie gone?” Fadi asked, sitting in Harry’s desk chair.

Dropping onto his bed, Harry leaned against the bedhead. “You know Artie. I heard him on the phone convincing someone to pick him up and take him who knows where.”

Fadi laughed. “He definitely has the gift of getting people to do things for him.”

“And that’s alright if you don’t live with him.”

“I’m sure. But he’s fun just the same.”

“That he is.” Harry shook his head, remembering the previous week when he and Artie had gone to the Glass Bucket. Artie had pulled two packets of stockings out of his coat pocket and slipped them to the girl who was collecting the admission fee. She had let Artie and him in free. Of course, Artie had taken the stockings from their father’s store.

The thought of the Glass Bucket made Harry sit up. “Did I tell you about a new girl I met at the store a few days ago?”

“No. Tell me.”

“I first saw her at the Glass Bucket.” Harry flopped back against his bedhead as if in a swoon. “She’s beautiful.”

“Like all the other girls you’ve been head over heels for.” Fadi chuckled.

Harry sat up again. “No. This is different.”

Fadi tilted his head with pursed lips.

“Daddy met her and thinks highly of her.”

“That’s always good.” Fadi sat forward. “Is she Lebanese?”

“No.” Harry shook his head.

“Syrian?”

“No.” Harry’s demeanor fell slightly.

“English or American, then?”

“Actually,” Harry sat back a bit. “She looks mostly Indian, but she’s probably mixed.”

Fadi’s eyes widened. “She’s colored, then.”

Harry nodded. “Yes.” Then leaned back against the bedhead.

Though he knew Fadi had his best interest at heart, he still felt the twin sensations of defiance and defeat, like he had been backed into a corner.

Fadi leaned back himself, seeming to sense Harry’s bind. Then he asked calmly, “And Uncle Bashir approves of you going out with her?”

“Well, we haven’t been out yet.” Harry reached for the pack of cigarettes and his lighter on his bedside table. “And, no, he doesn’t know I like her.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

Fadi shook his head with the certainty of a seer. “I have to say this. And I know you already know it, but remember Mr. Souaid, who married a colored woman? And she was also beautiful. Overnight he became the pariah of the Lebanese community. No one shops at his store anymore, and they don’t get invited to parties.”

Harry felt his shoulders tense. “Well, times are changing.”

“No, they aren’t.” Fadi shook his head again. “At least, not for those who came from the old country, like our fathers did.” He reached behind him and picked up Harry’s Lord Byron book from the desk. “I know you admire your mad, bad, and dangerous to know[1] poet hero, but you’re living in a Lebanese home, not traipsing about Europe.

Harry sighed, then lay back against his bedhead. He took a long draw of his cigarette, then let the smoke drift out. He was thinking of a way he could change the subject, like his father always changed the subject on his mother. He finally said, “I’ll think about what you said, but I want to know something else. What did my father say in Arabic at the dinner table?”

“He was quoting the end of a poem. Something about giving to the poor draws us closer to God.”

Harry looked away and said, as if to himself, “You know, I don’t understand my father. He never speaks Arabic to the family, but now, when he says something important, he says it in Arabic.” He looked back at Fadi. “But your father speaks Arabic with you. He even sent you to Beirut to study it for a year.”

Fadi shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Harry. The same family; two different ways of thinking.”

Putting his cigarette out, he said, “It’s as though Daddy’s pressing forward, on one hand, but stuck in the past, on the other.”

He stood up, walked over to the desk, and ran his hand over the cover of the Lord Byron book, feeling the impressed gold lettering of his name as though seeking answers.

He turned to Fadi, “I have an idea.”

“What?”

Every night, an hour before Daddy goes to bed, he goes into his study, closes the door, and reads aloud. Usually in English, but sometimes French and Arabic. When I hear him reading Arabic, I stand by the door listening. The tones flow like a warm, rhythmic river. Once, when it sounded like he was reading poetry, he paused, and when he began again, his voice wavered as though he had been crying. Another time, I cried. Can you believe it? And I didn’t even understand a word.”

“I can believe it. You understand the emotion in his Arabic. And if it’s poetry, it’s that much more emotional. But what does that have to do with this idea you said you have?”

“Yes.” Harry began slowly pacing the length of the room. “One morning, after he left for church, I went into the study and began looking through his library. I found his small collection of Arabic books and paged through them, looking for what could be poetry. I found two. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for in them, but when I went to put them back, I saw a small leather book tucked behind their slot. When I opened it, I found beautifully handwritten Arabic poems. It brought tears to my eyes, just like that time I listened to Daddy read what I’m now sure are his poems.”

Fadi asked, “How can you be sure they’re his?”

Harry stopped pacing. “I can’t explain it. I just know.”

There was silence in the room, amplifying the outdoor circadian sounds.

Harry sat at the foot of the bed. “Fadi, I need you to do something for me. I need you to translate the poems.”

“I don’t know, Harry. If they’re really his, it would be like reading his diary.”

“It’s important to me, Fadi. Please. I need to understand my father, and the poems might unlock that for me.”

Fadi breathed deeply, then said, “But I’m not a poet. I won’t be able to do justice to your father’s poems.”

“Is that it?” Harry smiled in relief. “Don’t worry about that, cousin. You just translate them the best you can, and Lord Byron and I will polish them up.”

“One thing, though. Daddy can’t know.”

[1] “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know” is said to be Lady Caroline Lamb’s description of Lord Byron following their brief but turbulent affair in 1812.

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• Fadi warns Harry about Mr. Souaid, who became a pariah for marrying across racial lines. How do you think Harry should weigh personal happiness against community belonging? Have you ever faced a similar choice?

• Harry finds himself moved to tears by his father’s Arabic poetry even though he doesn’t understand a single word. What do you make of this? Can we truly understand each other across the barriers of language—or even without it?

• Harry asks Fadi to translate his father’s poems in secret, insisting his father can’t know. What do you think drives this need for secrecy? Is Harry protecting his father, himself, or something else?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

If you enjoyed this post, please hit the ♡ button and consider subscribing to get my future posts delivered to your inbox.

Subscribe now

Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! We leave Cailin at her boarding house in the fourth part of Chapter 3 and shift to the Najem family dinner table in uptown Kingston, where Harry sits with his parents, his brother Artie, and his cousin Fadi. It’s an evening of family conversation, salt despite doctor’s orders, and a moment that catches Harry off guard.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or previous scenes, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Scene

I'm looking forward to your thoughts in the comments about family, language, and the things fathers and sons leave unsaid.

Chapter 4.1 - Harry: Words That Hang in the Air - Part 1

Seated at the dinner table, Artie said to his father, “Dad, tell Fadi why you never taught us Arabic like Uncle Naqid taught him.” He turned and winked at Artie with a grin.

Harry rolled his eyes.

Cutting a piece of shish-kebabed lamb, Bashir stopped and placed his knife and fork onto his plate. “Fadi, my nephew, I have already told you this before on a number of occasions, but to humor your cousin Arthur, who at twenty-two years old still thinks he is funny, I will tell it again. Perhaps it is he who really needs to hear it.”

Bashir looked around at everyone at the table. “I have always intended for my children to be successful in this British colony we live in, especially as English is spoken from sunrise to sunset on every continent of the world. There is little need for Arabic in the new world. But to be well-spoken in the King’s English opens the door to opportunity.”

He paused, then addressed Fadi. “And in answer to the next question Arthur will ask on your behalf, it is for the same reason that I have given all my children proper English names. Does that answer your curiosity?”

“Yes, Uncle Bashir. You’ve answered my questions just as I telepathed them to Artie.”

Everyone at the table laughed, except Bashir’s wife, Salma. Harry didn’t expect her to laugh. Humor seemed to slide past her, even though she had been born in Jamaica and spoke fluent English. His mother was usually caught up in her own concerns, and moments like this simply did not register with her.

Bashir and Salma Najem had seven children, six boys and one girl. Any Lebanese mother would have been proud to have birthed six boys, and so Salma was. Of her six boys and one girl, five of them were married and building lives for themselves in their own homes. Harry and Artie were still living in the comfort of their parents’ Seymour Avenue house, which had originally been built by the Henriques Brothers, a Jewish engineering firm, that had built several lavish homes for their relatives on Seymour Avenue. After Bashir’s dry goods store had prospered, he had bought the house from the widow of one of the Henriqueses and moved from downtown Kingston to the sprawling uptown Parish of Saint Andrew.

Salt shaker in hand, Bashir generously sprinkled salt on the remainder of his vermicelli and rice.

“Bashir!” Salma scolded, hands raised. “After I purposely asked Cookie not to put much salt in the riz bi sh’arieh because of your blood pressure.”

Smiling like a young boy caught cheating at cards, he replied, “Yes, yes, dear. I appreciate your looking after me, but Doctor Anderson[1] and I have an understanding.” He winked in the direction of the three boys and proceeded to sprinkle a little more salt over his rice.

The three of them laughed, and Salma waited for it to pass before addressing her husband. “You look healthy. You are not fat. But high blood pressure can kill a thin man as well as an old one.”

Bashir shook his head thoughtfully, then turned to her. “What did you do today?”

She looked at him innocently, as though she had not realized he had changed the subject on her. “Well, the chauffeur took me down to Half Way Tree market, and Cookie and I did some shopping. Most of what we’re eating came from the stalls by the clock tower—the cho-cho, the carrots. And I was glad to see Percy Chang’s had lamb.”

“I only had one problem this time.” Salma’s well-tweezed eyebrows furrowed. “Would you believe it? The abeed[2] man selling the vegetables was not paying attention to me, so I told him if he knew that I was Bashir Najem’s wife. He looked over at me and said, ‘Oh, you are from one of the Arab families.’ Well, I almost put the carrots down and walked off, but I decided to set him straight.” She sat up, her thin body erect, her buxom bosom protruding over the table. “I told him, ‘We are not Arabs, we are Phoenicians!’”[3]

At this, Artie and Fadi bit their lips to keep themselves from bursting out laughing.

Harry rolled his eyes for the second time that evening. “Very good, Mom. I’m glad you straightened him out.”

Changing the subject again, Bashir turned the attention back to the table. “Being that tomorrow is Sunday, I am going down to the West Kingston mission in the afternoon. Who would like to come with me?” His gaze swept the table.

Artie shook his head. “Sorry, Dad. Harry and I are meeting friends at Morgan’s Harbor tomorrow.”

Harry repeated the sorry.

Salma picked up the table bell and rang it for the maid to clear the table.

Bashir sat expressionless, as though something important had crossed his mind. Then he spoke slowly.

“In the words of our most famous Lebanese poet, Khalil Gibran,

‘Tadhakkar, yā akhī,

anna al-qiṭ‘ata allatī tulqīhā

fī al-yad al-dhābilah al-mamdūdah ilayk

hiya al-silsilah al-dhahabiyyah al-waḥīdah

allatī taṣil qalbaka al-ghaniyy

bi-qalb Allāh al-muḥibb.’”[4]

There was silence. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had heard his father speak Arabic at the dinner table. The words hung in the air like something he should understand but didn’t.

Then Fadi spoke up. “ʿAmm[5]. I will go with you.”

[1] Dr. Clifford Russell Anderson (1905–1967), an American physician who came to Kingston in 1944, helped build and shape Andrews Memorial Hospital, an institution that still cares for the city today.

[2] ʿAbeed (عبيد) is an Arabic word meaning “slaves.” In early-twentieth-century Jamaican-Syrian and Lebanese speech, it was sometimes used as inherited ethnic slang to refer to Black people, often without awareness of its literal meaning.

[3] Phoenicians was a term some Lebanese, especially Christians in the early twentieth century, used to describe themselves. By claiming descent from the ancient Phoenicians, they distinguished themselves from Arab identity and, by extension, from some of its religious and cultural associations.

[4] These Arabic words are a rough rendering of the last lines of Kalil Gibran’s poem “Mata Ahli” (“Dead are My People”). Here is a translation of them from all poetry.com

‘Remember, my brother,

That the coin which you drop into

The withered hand stretching toward

You is the only golden chain that

Binds your rich heart to the

Loving heart of God’”

Gibran, Khalil. “Dead Are My People.” All Poetry. Accessed January 14, 2026. https://allpoetry.com/poem/14326976-Dead-Are-My-People-by-Khalil-Gibran.

[5] ʿAmm (عمّ) is the Arabic word for a paternal uncle.

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• Bashir chose to raise his children with English names and no Arabic, believing it would open doors to opportunity. What do you think about this choice? Have you seen similar decisions in your own family or community?

• When Bashir recites Gibran’s poetry in Arabic, there’s a silence at the table before Fadi responds. What do you think that silence means for Harry, who cannot understand the words his father is speaking?

• Salma insists “We are not Arabs, we are Phoenicians!” while using Arabic terms in everyday speech. What does this contradiction reveal about immigrant identity and the complexity of belonging?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

The Najem dinner conversation promised insight into Bashir's values and his reasons for choosing English over Arabic. In the next scene, Harry reveals something unexpected, something hidden in his father's study that might explain more than any dinner table speech ever could.

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In the third part of Chapter 3, Cailin got her first overwhelming taste of Kingston as Linton drove her through the city’s chaotic streets. Now, in this fourth part, she finally arrives at her boarding house on Montrose Road. The modest weatherboard house promises to be the refuge she needs—warm, unpretentious, a place to breathe. But her new housemate Josie has other ideas, and Mrs. Finch’s rules about “respectable young ladies” might be harder to follow than Cailin expected.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or the previous scene of the novel, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Scene

I'm looking forward to your thoughts in the comments about the boarding house and the new relationships Cailin is forming.

Chapter 3.4 - Cailin: The Arrival: Part 4

“This is a good spot for you to catch the bus tomorrow.” Linton pointed at the corner where Seymour Avenue branched off Old Hope Road, then took the left up Seymour Avenue, driving less than half a mile before taking another left onto Montrose Road.

Slowing as he approached one of the single-story homes with its gates open, Linton checked the black iron numbers attached to one of the white stuccoed brick gate posts, then pulled into the driveway, parked, and told Cailin he would check to see if it was the correct house.

She got out of the car and took stock of her new lodgings. Unlike many of the more modern houses she had seen as Linton drove through that neighborhood, she found this house pleasantly understated: wooden weatherboard painted a sun-softened green with white gables and eaves, more proper than decorative; multi-paned, single-sash windows, flanked by thin louvered shutters, which would allow air to pass through the house during the night; a limestone foundation necessitating front steps.

These accommodations were nicer than she had expected. When Rowena, one of her sisters, had lived in Kingston, near Cross Roads, she had written to Cailin telling her the house she was renting a room in was unsatisfactory at best, which was one reason she took the opportunity to go to nursing school in Bermuda.

But Cailin sensed this house was perfect. It reminded her of homes in Westmoreland, putting her at ease.

The front door opened, and Linton exchanged a few words with a maid in an apron. After the door closed, Linton made his way back to the car. “This is the place, Miss Campbell.”

He took her suitcase out of the boot of the car and was walking her to the front door when a girl, not much younger than Cailin, appeared at the door wearing leather sandals, a light-yellow skirt above her knees and her brunette hair in a loose ponytail. “Welcome, Miss Campbell. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Glad someone had been expecting her, Cailin hurried up the front steps, smiling, and shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. You can call me Cailin. And you are?”

“Oh, forgive me. I’m Josie, Mrs. Finch’s daughter. Please come in.”

Linton handed Cailin her suitcase.

“Thank you for the ride and the tour through Kingston.”

He nodded and left for the car.

Josie took her by the arm and led her into the entrance hall, where they found a woman wearing a light brown cotton dress and low-heeled shoes with her graying brunette hair pulled back into a neat bun.

“Welcome, Miss Campbell.” She smiled politely. “I am Mrs. Finch.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Finch.”

“Well, I’m sure you have had a tiring day. Come right this way.” She turned. “I’ll take you to your room, and Josie will help you settle in.”

They followed Mrs. Finch, and Josie, still holding on to Cailin’s arm, leaned closer and said with an electric whisper, “We’re going to be partners in crime!”

Cailin raised her eyebrows, wondering what possible crimes they would commit.

“Now, Josie.” Mrs. Finch turned toward them. “Don’t let Miss Campbell think you are some kind of hooligan. This is a house for respectable young ladies, and being that Miss Campbell is a Hampton graduate, she is certainly that.” She met Cailin’s eyes. “I’m hoping you will be a good influence on my daughter, Miss Campbell.”

Cailin stiffened, as if being addressed by one of her old Hampton teachers. “By all means, ma’am.”

Mrs. Finch showed her to her room while explaining the boarding house rules: breakfast at 7:00 a.m., dinner at 6:30 p.m., a light lunch on the weekends at 1:00 p.m.; weekdays curfew at 11:00 p.m., weekends at 12:00 a.m.—any later, only with prior permission; no gentleman callers beyond the drawing room; and bedroom and shared bathroom kept tidy.

She left Cailin and Josie in the bedroom.

Cailin put her suitcase down and looked around. The room was slightly larger than her room at her family house and modestly furnished in a similar fashion with a single bed and side table, a chest of drawers over which hung a small oval wood-framed mirror, a wardrobe, and a small desk and chair positioned beneath a window with a view of the side yard. She decided the boarding house was indeed perfect—warm and unpretentious, a place where she could breathe. Even Mrs. Finch’s rules gave her a sense of security, unlike Josie, who Cailin could already tell was eager to break loose.

Josie closed the bedroom door. “Let me help you unpack.”

“There’s not much to unpack.” Cailin put her suitcase on the desk and opened it. “But I’d love the company.”

Josie flopped onto the bed, leaning back on one elbow. “I know we’ve only just met, but—” She paused, then rushed ahead. “Have you left a broken heart behind?”

Cailin turned to Josie, brows lifted in surprise. “No.” She turned back and pulled a dress out of her suitcase. “There is no one I’m interested in where I come from.”

Josie sat up. “I’m sorry to be so forward, but, I don’t have anyone to talk with about these things. My mother is not the type to talk with about boys. All I have are my Georgette Heyer books.”

Cailin chuckled, remembering her sisters reading those romantic novels while she was out having adventures with her brother and cousin on her father’s property or girls at school reading them while she was out playing field hockey.

Josie continued, “Whenever my father is around, he asks me about my love interests, but he’s only here a couple of times a year, if that.”

Hanging a dress up, Cailin asked, “If it’s not too personal, why do you only see your father once or twice a year?”

“Nothing’s too personal to ask. Remember, despite what my mother said, we’re now partners in crime.”

Cailin gave a small laugh.

“To answer your question, Daddy works for Imperial Commodities & Trading, and they sent him to Jamaica in the thirties. That’s how he met Mother. Then after the war, they called him back to London to help sort things out with clients across the Commonwealth. I’ve asked him when he’s coming back for good, but he says they still need him in London. Mother says she’s not moving to gray England, so she takes in a couple of boarders to help cover the cost of running the two households.”

“Is there another girl boarding here?”

“Not now. The lady who was in this room went back to the country, and the other girl up and got married. But you’re here now!” Josie patted the bed. “Come, sit down.”

Cailin closed the empty suitcase, put it on the floor beside the chest of drawers, and sat on the bed.

Josie sat up. “Have you ever gone dancing at a nightclub?”

“No, not at a nightclub.”

“Well then,” Josie took Cailin’s hand, “we’re going to the Glass Bucket one weekend. I’ll see if I can get a couple of fellows to join us.”

“I don’t know.” Cailin frowned. “I have to get settled at work before I can think about anything like that.”

“I understand, but we’ll go just as soon as you’re situated.”

Josie got up and opened the wardrobe door. “Now, let’s see what you’re going to wear to work tomorrow.” She flipped through the five dresses hanging inside. “Hmm. We’re going to have to go shopping for some Kingston clothes. These might do for work but not for the Glass Bucket.”

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• The boarding house is described as “warm and unpretentious, a place where she could breathe.” What does this phrase reveal about Cailin’s state of mind after her day in Kingston, and what might she need refuge from?

• Josie immediately wants to talk about boys, romance, and the Glass Bucket nightclub. What does this tell you about the generation gap and changing social norms in 1949 Jamaica? How do you think Cailin will respond to this new world?

• The detail about Mr. Finch working in London for Imperial Commodities while Mrs. Finch runs the boarding house reveals a lot about post-war life. What did this arrangement suggest to you about marriage, economics, and women’s roles in this period?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

With Cailin settled on Montrose Road, we move one street over to Seymour Avenue to meet Bashir’s family and discover his secret poetry collection.

Read Chapter 4, Scene 1

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In the second part of Chapter 3, Cailin met Miss Dupree and her new boss, Mr. Morgan, in an uncomfortable first encounter at Island Wide Tours. Now, in this third part, Linton drives her to her boarding house on Montrose Road. But as they pass through the chaotic streets of Parade and past the gleaming Carib Theatre, Cailin realizes just how far she is from home—and how much she’ll need to adapt to survive.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or the previous scene of the novel, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Scene

I’m looking forward to your thoughts in the comments about Cailin’s first real encounter with the city of Kingston.

Chapter 3.3 - Cailin: The Arrival: Part 3

Setting out on the drive from her new place of employment to the boarding house on Montrose Road, Cailin asked Linton, the chauffeur, to point out landmarks that would help her find her way around Kingston.

She had been to Kingston before with her father, but hadn’t paid much attention then—it had seemed merely a larger version of Savanna-la-Mar. Now that she was here to live, she paid close attention to every road sign, every building, every person and vehicle they passed.

They entered a heavily trafficked area filled with the thick odor of diesel fumes.

“This is Victoria Park,” Linton said, “and the four roads surrounding it are called Parade.”

Cailin had never seen so many people and vehicles in one place. All four sides of the park were surrounded by a litany of buses hissing and clanking as they pulled in and out of the stands. Taxis and jitneys honked horns while attempting to drop off and pick up passengers. Bicycles weaved in and out of the traffic while pedestrians followed their lead. Men, competing for passengers, called out destinations, raising their voices above the honking horns and lorry engines.

Two men in an angry exchange stood beside a handcart filled with luggage, while a vendor, pulling another handcart with one hand and wiping the sweat from his face with the other, yelled, “Banana, plantain, sweet potato, breadfruit.”

The longer they inched through the congestion, the afternoon heat seemed to multiply. They were too far from the harbor to benefit from the sea breeze.

Traffic stopped, and Linton turned toward her in the back seat. “I apologize for taking you this way, ma’am, but I wanted you to see where the bus route from Montrose Road will end.” He looked forward as the traffic moved again. “I believe you can catch the bus at the corner of Montrose and Seymour Avenue, which will take you here to Parade. From here, it will take five minutes to walk to work.”

She didn’t respond.

He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “I know it’s a lot, being new to Kingston.”

She realized he’d read her correctly—her lips were pursed, and she was clutching her handbag tightly.

She exhaled, then said, “It is a lot, but I’ll adjust.”

Cailin realized the bus ride the next day would be nothing like the calm Gleaner bus ride she had taken earlier that day, filled with country smells and cadences. She had to steel herself—she refused to return to her father’s house.

Once out of the Parade madness, Linton said he could take back roads, which would be faster, or he could drive the bus route she would be taking to and from work.

She opted for the latter, realizing again that he was trying to quell her anxiety.

In the area Linton called Cross Roads, Cailin saw a decidedly modern building, tall and pale with smooth lines, geometric shapes, and a large vertical sign hanging at the building’s corner. The sign read CARIB.

“What a wonderful building!” Cailin stuck her head halfway out the car window. “It looks like something out of the pictures.”

“So it is, ma’am. It’s a movie theatre.”

The memory of her first movie came back to her. She had been with her mother and one of her sisters, and there had been two kissing scenes, which had made Cailin blush, particularly since she had been sitting beside her mother.

Now she chuckled to herself. While she had not yet kissed a boy, she was no longer embarrassed by the thought. But that would be sometime in the future. For now, her only goals were to get established in Kingston and to rescue her mother.

The further they drove from downtown toward the mountains in the distance, the more land surrounded each building. Churches, offices, and stores sat on increasingly spacious lots, eventually giving way to homes set back from the road with lawns and hedges and low stone walls fitted with iron gates. There seemed more room for the mountain air to filter down and circulate.

Cailin drew in a long breath.

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• How did you experience Kingston through Cailin’s eyes in this scene, especially Parade and Cross Roads? What details stood out to you most?

• What did the contrast between the chaos of downtown and the quieter, more spacious uptown areas suggest to you about the city and about Cailin’s inner state?

• The Carib Theatre and the bus route are small but important moments. What do these details signal to you about the new life Cailin is stepping into, especially her daily rhythms in Kingston?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

The city has begun to take shape for Cailin. In the next scene, she’ll arrive at the boarding house and meet the people who will share her daily life.

Read Chapter 3, Scene 4

If you enjoyed this post, please hit the ♡ button and consider subscribing to get my future posts delivered to your inbox.

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In the first part of Chapter 3, we followed Cailin’s arrival in Kingston as she walked from the Gleaner bus to Island Wide Tours on Princess Street. Now, in this second part, Cailin steps into the office for the first time, meeting Miss Dupree and her new boss, Mr. Morgan. But between an awkward date mix-up and an uncomfortable meeting on the couch, her first day isn’t going quite as smoothly as she’d hoped.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or the previous scene of the novel, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Chapter

I’m looking forward to your thoughts in the comments about Cailin’s first day at Island Wide Tours and what you think of Mr. Morgan.

Chapter 3.2 - Cailin: The Arrival: Part 2

Cailin pushed the door open into a mid-sized office, causing its attached bell to jingle.

A woman in her forties looked up from the desk closest to the door. While removing her reading glasses, she greeted Cailin. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Cailin Campbell.” She stepped toward the desk. “I’m reporting for work.”

The woman frowned, then put on her glasses and looked in a book lying on the desk. She flipped a page forward and touched an entry on the next page. “Ah. Here you are.” She read the name carefully, as if checking a passport at the immigration office. “Cailin…Campbell.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

The woman looked up at Cailin, removing her glasses again. “We were expecting you tomorrow.”

Cailin’s face flushed. She put down her suitcase and reached for the envelope in her handbag.

“Don’t worry, we all make mistakes, dear.” The lady stood up and reached her hand over the desk to shake Cailin’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Miss Dupree.”

Cailin shook the lady’s hand. “Glad to meet you, ma’am.”

Miss Dupree pointed at a cushioned wooden chair beside her desk. “Please take a seat while I check if Mr. Morgan can see you now.”

Miss Dupree walked toward the back of the office and disappeared through a door.

Cailin sat and took the letter from the envelope, which confirmed she had arrived on the correct day. Either someone typed the wrong date in the letter or wrote the wrong date in that book on the desk. She could imagine Miss Dupree with her reading glasses doing just that.

Realizing she was accusing the older lady without proof, she sighed. No matter who had done it, Cailin was sure she would be looked down on for allegedly arriving on the wrong day. She comforted herself with the thought that at least she would be perceived as an eager beaver, rather than a slacker.

Against the wall behind Miss Dupree’s desk, the switchboard operator sat with several wires plugged into the board, speaking into the telephone in a broad, musical island tone that contrasted with the colonial classroom voices Cailin had been around in recent years.

Other voices rose and fell throughout the room, where clerks spoke on telephones set on wooden desks. Each desk held a double-stacked wooden tray filled with papers, a typewriter, and thick ledgers that the clerks leafed through as they worked. Toward the back of the office, where Cailin had seen Miss Dupree disappear into another room, stacks of ledgers were lined up neatly on top of a row of metal filing cabinets.

Noticing one empty desk, she figured it would be hers. Straightening up, she imagined herself sitting there, flipping through travel ledgers while speaking to customers in New York or London or even Paris. She smiled, then looked out the large-pane window and thought about her mother. Just that morning she had left her in tears with a promise. Cailin’s shoulders fell. Whatever the cost, she had to go back for her mother. She would make this job work, set herself up in an apartment, and then send for her.

“Mr. Morgan will see you now.”

Cailin looked up. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Follow me. You can leave your suitcase behind my desk.”

Miss Dupree led her to the back office with its clear glass window and Mr. Morgan’s name painted on it. Through the window, Cailin saw a comfortably built man speaking on the phone behind a heavy desk with rows of travel ledgers on the wall behind him. Miss Dupree led her into his office and pointed to a long couch. When Cailin sat down, Miss Dupree left the room, closing the door behind her. Cailin wished she had stayed.

“Well, listen, nuh, I have someone in my office. Let’s have lunch next Wednesday at Liguanea Club.” Mr. Morgan nodded. “Yes, yes. See you then.”

He hung up the phone.

“Miss Campbell, is it?” He stood and came over to Cailin, offering her his hand.

“Yes, sir.” She stood and shook his hand.

“Please sit down.” He motioned toward the couch.

He sat on the other end of the couch. “You come on good recommendation. A business associate of mine said your brother-in-law told him about you. That you needed a job in Kingston and you’re a Hampton girl.”

“Yes…sir.” Cailin froze. She had never been in a room alone with a man, besides the men in her family.

“I can tell you’re a little uneasy. It’s understandable. Moving from the country to the big city of Kingston. But never you mind. You’ll adjust soon enough.”

Realizing she was not making a good impression on her new boss, she smiled. “Yes, sir. I do adjust quickly to new circumstances. What job will I be doing here at Island Wide Tours?”

“You’ll be one of our booking clerks, receiving inquiries over the telephone for air and sea travel. And if you do well in that position, you’ll have other opportunities.” He smiled, raising his eyebrows.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. You’ll find I learn quickly, and I’m efficient.”

He patted the arm of the couch, then said, “That’s what I like to hear, Miss Campbell.” He stood up. “Now, let’s see if we can get the chauffeur to take you to your boarding house. A small courtesy for your first afternoon in Kingston.”

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• Mr. Morgan sat on the couch with Cailin rather than staying behind his desk. What did you make of that choice and his overall behavior?

• How did you feel about the office atmosphere—Miss Dupree, the switchboard operator, the other clerks? Did it feel like a real 1940s workplace?

• The contrast between the “musical island tone” of the switchboard operator and Cailin’s “colonial classroom voices” stood out. What does this tell you about the world Cailin is entering?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

Read Chapter 3, Scene 3

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In Chapter 2, we followed Lilla as she sold her family’s Blue Mountains coffee in Kingston and met Harry Najem at his father’s store on King Street. Now we rejoin Cailin, who we first met leaving Oristano in Chapter 1. In this first part of Chapter 3, the Gleaner bus has reached its final stop in Kingston, and as she steps onto Harbour Street with her suitcase in hand, her new life as a working-class city girl is about to begin.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or the previous scene of the novel, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Chapter

I’m looking forward to your thoughts in the comments about Cailin’s arrival in Kingston and what you think might happen next.

Chapter 3.1 - Cailin: The Arrival: Part 1

The Gleaner bus pulled to a halt outside The Daily Gleaner building. Tooky, the driver, turned to the remaining passengers. “Well, we’ve reached our last stop,” he announced while opening his door.

Cailin and a man from May Pen were the only passengers left. All along their route, passengers had been getting on and off the bus at stops where Tooky delivered the newspaper. Along with delivering the paper, the Gleaner bus served as an informal country bus that went from Savanna-la-Mar to Kingston.

Cailin stepped off the bus and onto a narrow pavement. Nearby was a large loading bay where men with rolled-up sleeves unloaded reels of newsprint. An odor drifted out, ink mixed with some kind of machine oil. There was also the familiar smell of salt in the air that must have come from the other side of the warehouses across the street, where she knew the Kingston Harbour lay. She had caught a glimpse of it on their way into the city.

Tooky set Cailin’s suitcase beside her. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Oh, yes. Island Wide Tours on Princess Street.”

Tooky pointed to the next street over. “That’s Princess Street. Take a left there, and it will be two streets up.” He looked at her with a smile. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Cailin. I wish you the best with your new life.”

She reached out to shake his hand. “Thank you, Tooky.” She returned the smile. “And thanks also for telling me about Kingston. I’ll keep your advice in mind about watching out for the Kingston men.”

“You do that.” He took her hand and gave it a warm shake.

Walking beside the cream-painted concrete walls of The Daily Gleaner building, she noticed that every fourth step of hers coincided with the start of another one of the tall, narrow steel-framed windows lining the second floor of the building. This created an internal rhythmic pattern, reminding her of the dance she learned at school, in preparation for the Munro College boys’ visits to Hampton School socials. She had only ever danced with a handful of boys, but even then her brother and cousin had kept a close eye on the boys who dared to dance with her.

At the last window, the one beside the fading painted Daily Gleaner sign, she had the urge to finish off her imaginary dance with a spin. Just then, a flatbed lorry loaded with wooden boxes and driving close to the pavement took a swift left turn on what she realized from the street sign bolted on the building was Princess Street. This jolted her back to the present, reminding her she was no longer a country boarding-school girl but a working-class city girl, for better or for worse.

Following the lorry up Princess Street, she felt a soft breeze blowing from the opposite direction and turned. Between two warehouses she saw a crate being loaded onto a large ship by its cargo boom. A seagull flew close to the crate, as though inspecting it for food, then screeched and flew off. To the side of the ship, Cailin saw the water and smiled. Except for her time at Hampton School, she had always been close to the sea. Even at Hampton there had been a distant view of it. She was glad to be near it. Perhaps she would go down there on her lunch breaks.

On both sides of Princess Street, Cailin noticed a variety of businesses: merchant shops, law and insurance offices, shipping companies, and banks. She was reminded of George Street, Savanna-la-Mar’s main business artery, though George Street was quieter, with less traffic and smaller, architecturally quaint buildings. Kingston was different. It bustled with modernity. It felt urgent.

Cailin put her suitcase down and opened her handbag, pulling out a piece of paper with an address on it. She knew the address well, but checking the paper again steadied her. Her first place of employment was about to be two businesses down from where she stood.

Turning toward the windowpane of the store beside her, she looked at her reflection, breathed in, and straightened her posture. She tucked in a loose strand of hair, smoothed her dress, then walked the twenty-seven steps to the door with the painted words, Island Wide Tours.

I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• What was your first impression of Cailin? How does she compare to Lilla as a character?

• What did you think of the 1940s Kingston setting—the Gleaner bus, the harbour, Princess Street? Did it feel authentic and alive?

• Cailin is stepping into her new life as a “working-class city girl, for better or for worse.” What do you think awaits her at Island Wide Tours and in her new lodgings?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

Read Scene 2 of Chapter 3

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In Chapter 1, we met Lilla James—nursing student by day, jazz singer by night at The Glass Bucket Club. Now we see another side of her: the dutiful daughter helping her widowed mother sell their Blue Mountains coffee in downtown Kingston.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or the previous scene of the novel, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Scene

Following the introduction to how Bashir, Cailin, Lilla, and Harry end up in Kingston in 1949, we now find Lilla selling her family’s Blue Mountains coffee to Kingston’s finest stores, trying to honor her late father’s work and support her widowed mother. But when she walks into Najem & Sons on King Street, she finds more than a potential customer—she finds Harry Najem, who recognizes her as the singer from The Glass Bucket Club. Suddenly, Lilla must navigate not just a business pitch, but an unexpected attraction and a father’s wisdom that hits closer to home than anyone intended.

I’m looking forward to your thoughts in the comments about Lilla’s encounter with the Najem family and what you think might happen next.

Chapter 2 - Lilla: The Singer and the Merchant’s Son

Lilla waited for the donkey-drawn cart to pull up so she could park in front of the store on King Street, Kingston’s main commercial thoroughfare. After turning off the car, she adjusted the rear-view mirror so she could smooth her hair from the car ride and then took the package from the seat beside her. She opened the car door and stood on the macadam-paved road, the tar glistening in the midday sun.

The brakes of a cream and green JOS single-decker bus sighed, bringing the bus to a momentary halt before the clutch engaged the engine, which grumbled back to life. It was just the previous year that these British buses had replaced the old Kingston tram system, and now to Lilla they seemed to struggle in the Jamaican heat.

She stepped onto the pavement and looked up above the red and white striped awning that spanned the width of the store. There, the store’s name, Najem & Sons, spread out on a painted wooden sign the length of the three jalousie shuttered windows above it. The red in the awning made her smile. Perhaps it’s a sign.

She held on to the brown paper package of coffee beans with both hands and steadied herself. She’d already been to Nathan’s Department Store and Issa’s of King Street, but they were not interested in taking a chance on coffee from a single farm. They bought from major suppliers like the Mavis Bank Coffee Factory and Wallenford Coffee Works.

Before entering, she decided to view the products in the two large single-pane windows on either side of the open doors. Maybe this would give her a clue as to how to approach this owner differently than the others.

In one pane she saw bolts of cloth displayed in a variety of colors, sewing accoutrements arranged neatly on a small table, and items of clothing, women’s dresses, men’s shirts and ties, and shoes for both men and women all arranged to catch the eye.

In the other window were household and food products, some imported, some local. She saw enamel basins and kerosene lamps. Bay rum, coconut oil, and soaps. Jams from Saint Mary Parish, honey from Clarendon. Imported tea from Ceylon and tins of Ovaltine and Cadbury’s Pure Cocoa. Then it caught her eye. Brown kraft paper bags filled and bound with cotton string and a rubber stamp imprint reading, Mavis Bank Coffee Factory.

She let her right hand drop beside her with her package of coffee in it, and she turned to walk back to the car. No point in wasting more time.

“Good day, Miss.”

She turned back to see a young man, obviously related to the store’s owner, who her aunt had told her was Syrian. He had olive skin and a prominent but refined nose.. She found him attractive.

“Oh. Yes. Good day to you as well.”

“I noticed you were browsing the windows. Was there anything you liked? Perhaps one of the fashionable dresses in the window?” Then he looked her over. “Although the dress you’re wearing is quite stunning.” He smiled.

She looked down at her dress. It was cream with a sage leaf pattern. She’d worn the muted colors to seem more businesslike. Now she wished she’d worn something more fetching.

Harry squinted his eyes, tilting his head to the side. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you the singer at the Glass Bucket?”

“Well…yes.” She tipped her head downward but kept her eyes on Harry with a coy smile.

“You’ve got a train-stopping voice. And the way you sing that Sarah Vaughan song. Oh, what’s it called?”

“Tenderly.”

He snapped his fingers. “Yes. That’s it! You did it justice.” He reached out for her hand.

Not knowing what else to do, she gave him her hand, thinking he was going to kiss it.

Instead, he took it and gave a subtle, gentlemanly bow. “Harry Najem, at your service. And would you do me the honor of telling me your name?”

She blushed at being made such a fuss over, then replied. “Lilla. Lilla James. And I’m not here to purchase anything, as lovely as your window displays look. I’m actually here on family business.”

“Oh, and what might that be?”

Going into sales mode, Lilla straightened her posture and handed the package she was carrying to Harry. “As a representative of the James coffee property, I’m bringing samples of coffee to Kingston’s finest dry goods establishments with the hope of encouraging them to carry our finest coffee beans in their store.”

She pointed to the bags of Mavis Bank coffee in the display window. “Mavis Bank gets our regular coffee, but we also grow a special coffee that’s like none other.”

She stood, a broad smile across her face, pleased with how she’d turned the Mavis Bank obstacle to her advantage.

“Well, Lilla James. Not only do you stop trains with your voice, but you can sell coffee to the engineer while you’re at it.” He motioned her into the store. “Come right this way, Miss James, and I’ll lead you to the proprietor of the establishment.”

Walking a step behind Harry, she let surprise flicker in her eyes but resisted a smile, unwilling to break her businesslike demeanor.

Like the store windows, the shop was neat and well appointed—polished wood floors and counters, neatly folded and hung clothes, precisely stacked products, and well-displayed household goods. While this store was smaller than the others she’d visited earlier that day, it was every bit as classy. She hadn’t met Mr. Najem, but if the store reflected its owner, she knew she would like him.

At the back of the store, Harry opened a wooden door with a well-polished brass doorknob and led Lilla into an office as neat and carefully maintained as the rest of the store. Behind a desk sat a gentleman writing with a fountain pen. He looked to be in his fifties and wore a light brown linen suit. His hairline receded to the top of his head, his nose as prominent as Harry’s.

“Father, there’s someone here to see you.”

The man looked up, and seeing Lilla, smiled warmly and rose from his chair. He came over and shook her hand. “Bashir Najem, ma’am. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

“Lilla James, Mr. Najem. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You have a lovely store.”

“Father, Miss James is here to speak with you about a family product she’d like us to consider selling in the store.”

“Please.” Bashir motioned her to sit in a chair in front of his desk. “Son, please join us as well.” Addressing Lilla, he said, “Harry has recently joined the business, and I’d like him to take part in our conversation.”

“By all means,” Lilla replied. “He has already been so helpful.”

Bashir returned to his chair and asked, “So what is it you are selling?”

Lilla gave the same speech she had given to Harry outside the store, acknowledging that she knew he sold coffee from the Mavis Bank Factory, but explaining that her family’s property also grew a special variety. Her father had begun cultivating it in the early thirties, selecting the finest beans over the years, and her mother had continued perfecting his work after his death.

At the mention of her father’s death, Bashir’s expression softened with sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss James. And you, such a young woman.”

Lilla nodded her head in appreciation.

Sitting in the chair beside her, Harry pursed his lips and sighed.

Bashir continued, “Your mother, then, has run the property by herself, or do you have brothers?”

“No. I am an only child.”

“Remarkable.” Bashir nodded his head in thought. “And here you are assisting your mother by selling her coffee.”

“Yes, sir.” Then, hoping to impress him further, she added, “I am in the first inaugural nursing program at the University College of the West Indies.”

Bashir’s eyes brightened.

Harry’s face fell.

Lilla froze, not sure why what she had said caused those distinctively disparate reactions.

“I commend you for what you are doing to better yourself and your family. Your mother must be very proud of you. And you should be proud of her for running the property and perfecting your father’s work. Those are courageous and wise qualities.”

He turned to Harry.  “You see, son, you take whatever opportunity presents itself and make the most of it. Now, you have to work here with me, instead of being a doctor.”

Lilla didn’t look at Harry, but she could feel his tension radiating. Her own face went flush.

To break the tension, Lilla said, “I’ve given your son a sample of our coffee. If it’s alright, I’ll stop back in a week to see if you would like to stock it.” She stood up, thinking she’d overstayed her welcome, and reached her hand across Bashir’s desk.

Bashir rose and shook her hand. “No need to check back, I’ll stock whatever you can bring me, and I look forward to bringing your sample home and making Turkish coffee with it.”

Lilla shook his hand briskly. “Thank you, Mr. Najem!”

“Not at all, dear. I look forward to supporting your efforts.”

As Harry walked Lilla out of the store, Lilla said, “I’m sorry I became an object lesson for you, Mr. Najem. I know what it’s like. My mother is always on me about something.”

Harry gave a rueful chuckle. “Ever since I quit medical school in Canada, he’s been on me.”

“But you know, he has a point. After all, he is successful.” She spread her hands up toward the Najem & Sons sign. “And…he is wise. After all, he is stocking my coffee, isn’t he?” She laughed.

Harry laughed with her, nodding in concession, then added, “But that’s because you’re so charming. Speaking of which, have I charmed you enough to go out with me? I think we’d have a lot to talk about.”

She folded her arms loosely. “Like what?”

“Sarah Vaughan. Coffee. Parents. Just to start.”

Lilla turned, walked the short distance to her car, got in, wrote something on a piece of paper, and handed it to him saying, “Call me.”

Harry looked at the note and smiled. “Okay.”

Lilla had to crank the car twice before it would start.

Harry put his hand on the car door. “I can fix that, you know. It’s just the carburetor.”

As she drove away, she looked in the rearview mirror to find Harry still there watching.

Lilla walked away with a sale, a potential date, and Harry still watching her drive off. I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• Did the dynamic between Lilla and Harry work for you? What was your first impression of him?

• What did you think of the 1940s Kingston setting—the store, the streets, the details? Did it feel authentic and alive?

• Lilla gave Harry her number—but she’s already juggling nursing school, nightclub performances, and the coffee business. How do you think a romance fits into her complicated life?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

Chapter 1, Scene 4: Harry

If you enjoyed this post, please hit the ♡ button and consider subscribing to get my future posts delivered to your inbox.

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In this scene, I’m introducing you to Harry Najem—son of Bashir, whom we met in the opening scene. If you’ve read my novel, When Trees Fall, you may recall Harry’s brief cameo as a teenager.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or the previous scene of the novel, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Scene

We now meet twenty-two-year-old Harry Najem as he boards a train in Montreal, bound for New York and ultimately Jamaica. A young man caught between two passions—mechanical wonders and poetry—and between two futures: the one his father has mapped out for him as a doctor, and the one he dreams of as an engineer. Set in 1949, this scene captures Harry at a crossroads, carrying a secret decision that will change everything when he finally tells his father. As Mount Royal disappears behind him, Harry reflects on what it means to live in the shadow of a good man who built something from nothing—and what it costs to step out of that shadow.

I’ll be publishing new scenes weekly as I complete them. What I’m really looking forward to is engaging with readers in the comment section—it’s a great place to share your reactions, ask questions about the story, and even influence how I bring the story to life.

I can’t wait to hear your thoughts about Harry’s journey.

Chapter 1, Scene 4 - Mount Royal (1949)

“Aaaaall…aboooooard!” the conductor called, stretching the words like pulled caramel.

Last-minute passengers found seats, while Harry Najem folded his coat and stowed it beside his duffel bag in the overhead luggage rack. He sank down into the worn burgundy upholstered seat, placed his book beside him, and straightened his tie.

The whistle blew with two short blasts, and within seconds Harry heard clank-clank-clank and felt a jerk as the engine took up the slack between the cars. He could see it all in his mind. The loose couplings pulling tight, one by one—the iron horse hauling the separate pieces into a single, fluid creature.

There was nothing Harry loved more than the inner workings of a mechanical wonder. It didn’t matter how big or small. What mattered was the parts fitting together to perform the assigned duty. In this case, to transport passengers from Montreal to New York in roughly twelve hours, traveling thirty to forty miles per hour. Once in New York, he would trade this mechanical marvel for an even greater one—the T.E.S. Talamanca, a turbo-electric passenger and cargo ship that could make it to Jamaica in under five days.

Harry’s other love was poetry. He picked up and flipped through his copy of Lord Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, a long narrative poem following a restless young man across Europe. He closed the book and let it rest in his hand, watching the city through the window. What would Byron make of this? Mount Royal—really more of a hill than a mountain—became a resplendent crown blessing Montreal’s gray stone facades and towering elms. Chuckling, he made a mental note to add it to his poetry-ideas notebook.

He thought of a poem he’d started writing about his father. Under his breath, he recited the only two lines he’d actually written:

“The rose that springs

From least of which it should”

Unable to get any further, he’d laid the poem to rest, letting it ferment, until the tentative nature of their relationship resolved itself.

His father, Bashir, was a good man, if not an old-fashioned one. A forward-thinking man when it came to business—as so many who immigrated from the Levant were—but old-world where it came to family and education. It was this latter concern where the rub lay.

Out of seven children, Bashir had chosen to send only two to university. Recognizing his fourth son Grant’s academic aptitude, he had sent him to Harvard to study engineering. Even before Grant had left for college, Harry had decided he wanted to pursue the same path. Harry’s own interest was set in motion long before he even heard the word engineer. By the time he built a working model steam engine in his secondary school physics class, his path seemed clear to both him and his physics teacher.

Harry’s school reports always pleased his father, who had already decided Harry would attend university to study medicine. He had objected, citing his love for engineering. His father said there was already one engineer in the family, and the need was for a doctor. Though he begged, his father would not relent. So, rather than not go to college at all, he took the opportunity his father offered him to go to McGill University to study medicine.1

Looking out the train window again, Harry saw the cosmopolitan city center slipping away and took a deep breath, exhaling sharply. Despite the cold temperatures, he would miss Montreal, particularly McGill with its physics equations to parse and poetic lines to decode. He’d made friends too, especially among the women drawn to his olive skin and Jamaican accent. But there would be no more Human Anatomy and dissecting dead bodies for him. He was done with medical school. He’d tell his father in Jamaica.

Just then, the train conductor came by wearing a stiff-brimmed cap with the word “Conductor” embroidered in gold block letters. “Tickets, please.” He carried a brass punch and moved down the aisle, punching passengers’ tickets to the rhythmic clatter of the wheels over the rail joints.

Harry smiled, reached into his pocket, and handed his ticket to the conductor, who nodded back at him.

A woman across the aisle raised her hand, cigarette between her fingers. “Anyone got a lighter for a damsel in distress?” She wore a well-tailored navy dress with white collar and cuffs.

Before anyone else could oblige her, Harry was out of his seat. He flipped open his Zippo, bent down toward her, and flicked the flint wheel to light her cigarette.

She looked up at him, tilting her head. “Why, thank you for your gallantry, sir.”

“At your service.” Harry nodded and returned to his seat. He smiled, running his palm over the cloth covering of Lord Byron’s book.

The train picked up speed. He turned and looked out the window, catching the last view of the southern slope of Mount Royal, thick with trees covered in new leaves. The unclouded skies revealing the mountain-hill’s steel cross planted on the summit. He thought of his father again. A good man. A man from a real mountain. A man who built something out of nothing.

His father had spoken very little about where he came from, but from Harry’s schooling he knew Mount Lebanon was more than ten times the size of Mount Royal—towering over it the way Harry always felt his father towered over him.

1

Lebanese families like the Najems had their own unspoken rules about success: diversify the children like investments, building a foundation with many pillars. One son might become a doctor for prestige, another an engineer for skill, perhaps a third would study law for influence. It was a way of spreading their bets, covering all the bases to ensure the family’s survival and success in their new country, climbing as high as possible while maintaining their dignity and honor. Bashir Najem was simply following the playbook.

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This is just the beginning of Harry’s journey, and I’m curious how it’s landing with you. Jump in on whichever question sparks something:

• Did Harry’s conflict between his father’s expectations and his own dreams feel authentic to you?

• How did the train setting and Harry’s dual passions for mechanics and poetry work for you? Did anything feel off or make you curious to learn more?

• What do you predict will be the biggest obstacle Harry faces as he tries to forge his own path?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

Read the Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this post, please hit the ♡ button and consider subscribing to get my future posts delivered to your inbox.

Subscribe now

Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

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Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In this third scene, I’ll be sharing Lilla’s story.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or the previous scene of the novel, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Previous Scene

Following our previous scenes, where we met Bashir Najem fleeing war-torn Lebanon and Cailin Campbell leaving her fishing village for Kingston, we now join Lilla James—a young woman living a double life in 1949 Jamaica. By day, she’s a nursing student at the University College of the West Indies. By night, she’s a jazz singer at The Glass Bucket Club, performing in a red sequined dress while her family believes she’s studying with classmates. Set against the backdrop of her family’s Blue Mountains coffee farm and the vibrant nightclub scene of Kingston, this scene captures Lilla caught between duty and desire, between the respectable future her widowed mother sacrificed to provide and the electric pull of the stage. Her performance is just beginning—but so are the complications of maintaining her carefully constructed deception.

I’ll be publishing new scenes weekly as I complete them. What I’m really looking forward to is engaging with readers in the comment section—it’s a great place to share your reactions, ask questions about the story, and even influence how I bring the story to life.

I can’t wait to hear your thoughts about Lilla’s double life and the delicate act she’s performing both on and off the stage.

Chapter 1, Scene 3 - Blue Mountains (1949)

The floor man opened the dressing room door, unmuffling the drum solo, punctuated by spirited voices and glasses clinking. He stuck his head in the room. “Five minutes till showtime.”

Lilla James adjusted her hair clip, then reached into her purse for the new lipstick she’d purchased earlier that day. Revlon’s Fatal Apple. The clerk at Myers department store had recommended it. She didn’t often shop at Myers, with its uptown clientele, but after her clash with her mother that afternoon, she wanted to treat herself to something special, as her father had done for her on difficult days. Besides, she knew that in Myers the clerks went out of their way to compliment the shoppers. She always felt like somebody when she was in there, and today she needed to feel like somebody.

Lilla applied the lipstick, then looked in the mirror. The deep apple hue complemented her red dress and golden teak tones of her skin. She promised herself to go back to Myers and purchase the matching nail polish. Smiling, she repeated what the girl behind the counter had said. “You wear that red like you’re dangerous.”

The corners of Lilla’s mouth fell at the thought of the “innocent” lies she’d told her Aunt Shanvi. To sing at The Glass Bucket Club a couple times a week, she’d been telling her aunt she needed to meet with fellow nursing students to study for classes at the University College of the West Indies. But the excuse was growing stale. When she gave it an hour ago, her aunt had tilted her head and squinted her eyes. Lilla wasn’t sure how much longer she had until her aunt shared her suspicions with her mother. That would certainly lead to a huge clash, which no treat at Myers could fix.

That morning, in her father’s faded green 1937 Austin 10, Lilla had made the trek up the narrow, eroded roads to visit her family’s coffee farm in the Blue Mountains. Her mother had met her with a long hug. “Oh, it seems forever since I last saw my college girl.”

Lilla’s eyes smiled. “It’s good to see you, too, Mummy, but I was here only a few weeks back.”

“What’s a few weeks to you, is a lifetime to me. Now, come, let’s see what Cookie’s prepared for us.”

After lunch, mother and daughter sat on wide-armed veranda chairs sipping freshly brewed farm coffee as they gazed at the layered mountains that faded from deep emerald to pale blue in the distance. Occasionally, muffled voices of farm hands echoed off the adjacent mountain, where Norman and Edna Manley had their weekend property, Nomdmi. In her teen years, Lilla had enjoyed spying on their son Michael with her father’s binoculars.

Lilla and her mother talked about university life and gossiped about Aunt Shanvi, who Lilla lived with in Kingston, and about the rest of the Indian community.

The conversation took a turn when Lilla asked how her mother was doing. After Lilla’s father died when she was nine, her mother had selflessly devoted herself to managing the coffee farm and seeing to Lilla’s education, ensuring Lilla would never have to earn her living as a coffee farmer.

Lilla placed her hand over her mother’s and said in an almost whisper, “I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for everything you’ve done since Daddy died.”

Her mother turned toward her, eyebrows raised, the weight of the words sitting between them for a moment. She smiled as if to lighten the unexpected vulnerability. “It’s what a mother does. You’ll find out one day.”

Lilla sighed. “But you’ve been so selfless. And now you’re up here all alone.”

“It’s not so bad. There’s Cookie and the farm hands. But I’d love to see more of you.” Her mother hesitated slightly. “Could you stay for the weekend?”

And just like that, the familiar lie flowed from Lilla’s lips. “Sorry, Mummy, I can’t. I’m getting together with students to study for an upcoming medical terminology test.”

With the same tilted head and squinted eyes as her aunt, her mother moved her hand away. “You could study up here at the big desk in your room. The truth is, I’m a little hurt you don’t spend more time here.”

“Mummy. Don’t use that—” Lilla stopped herself, then said with measured calm, “Sorry. I’ll try to get up more often.”

“You know what, Lilla. You’re stubborn, just like your father. I loved him, but he always got his way. And it’s the same with you.”

At the mention of her father, Lilla froze. “Don’t use Daddy to manipulate me. It’s what you always do, and you know it upsets me.”

Her mother’s face went stoic.

“And that’s what you always do, too. You clam up.”

Lilla grabbed her purse, stood up, and headed for her father’s old car. She slammed the door, fumbled for the keys, and cranked the old engine twice before driving off, spitting rocks from the back tires.

“It’s show time, Lilla!” the floor man yelled from the corridor.

The announcement was like a switch. Her mother’s stern face faded, replaced by the image of lights and the electric buzz of the expectant audience sitting in the warm courtyard. She rolled her shoulders back as if shedding an old coat for a new one.

This is worth the lie. This is worth everything.

The band launched into the long intro for the first song—Satchmo’s “On the Sunny Side of the Street.” Before the trumpet player completed his solo, Lilla sashayed her way through the curtains and across the stage, her red sequined dress glittering with each measured step. With the crowd hushed and every face turned toward her, she spread her arms wide, drinking in the moment. Then, right on cue, she reached the mic and delivered her first note.

This is just the beginning of Lilla’s journey, and I’m curious how it’s landing with you. Jump in on whichever question sparks something:

• Did the clash between Lilla and her mother feel authentic? Could you understand both of their perspectives?

• How did the contrast between the Blue Mountains coffee farm scene and the nightclub performance work for you? Did the shift in tone feel effective?

• What do you think will unravel first—her aunt’s suspicions, her mother discovering the truth, or something else entirely?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

Chapter 1, Scene 4: Harry

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome back to Up From Mountains! In this second scene, I’ll be sharing Cailin’s story with you. If you’ve read my novel, When Trees Fall, you’ll remember Cailin. But don’t worry, you don’t need to have read it to enjoy her in Up From Mountains.

If you haven’t read the Introduction or the Scene 1 of the novel, you may want to check them out first:

Introduction

Chapter 1, Scene 1

Following our opening scene, where we met Bashir Najem as he arrived in Jamaica after fleeing war-torn Lebanon, we now join nineteen-year-old Cailin Campbell as she takes the most courageous step of her young life—boarding the Daily Gleaner bus bound for Kingston with nothing but a small suitcase and her mother’s coral and pearl brooch. Set in the small fishing village of Oristano in 1949 Jamaica, this scene captures the bittersweet moment of departure as Cailin leaves behind everything familiar while carrying the weight of unspoken family secrets. Her journey toward independence begins here, in the pre-dawn quiet of a community she loves but can no longer safely call home.

I’ll be publishing new scenes weekly as I complete them. What I’m really looking forward to is engaging with readers in the comment section—it’s a great place to share your reactions, ask questions about the story, and even influence how I bring the story to life.

I can’t wait to hear your thoughts about this pivotal moment in Cailin’s journey.

Chapter 1, Scene 2 - Cawdor Mountain (1949)

Sweeping the front steps of his shop, Mr. Lyn looked up when Cailin Campbell arrived. He stopped sweeping and raised his eyebrows. “Not used to seeing you in a dress—and with a suitcase. Planning on heading out on the Gleaner bus?”

“Yes.” She looked back down the road she had walked down. Her small suitcase clutched against her light blue cotton dress. She looked at Mr. Lyn and hesitated. “Kingston.”

Mr. Lyn didn’t ask her why she was leaving. He just said, “The big city, eh?” He shook his head. “When I was not much younger than you, I went to Kingston to work in my uncle’s grocery store. I didn’t stay long. The city was no good. Too big.” He resumed sweeping. “I came back home.”

Cailin glanced up at the bush-covered mountain. I can’t go back home. Even though everyone in Oristano knew her family’s situation, she wouldn’t say those words out loud. She would leave them unspoken, to swirl in the wake of her departure.

Only her mother remained on Cawdor Mountain. Everyone else Cailin loved had left at the first chance, but her mother—too frightened of her husband, Malcolm Campbell—refused to go.

The morning she left, her mother had given her the coral and pearl brooch Cailin had long admired. She had wept softly and had held her mother close. “I’ll be back for you,” the words had barely made it past the tightness in her throat. She wasn’t sure if either of them really believed her promise.

On the way out the door, Essie, the Cawdor House cook, warned Cailin, “What yuh a do goin’ bring autoclaps[1]. A threshin’ an’ winnowin’ a come down pon dis house. But neva mind, Miss C, I know you have to go. Me wi’ look out fi you mother.”

Turning from Mr. Lyn, Cailin set the suitcase down and swept her sandy blonde hair from her face. She allowed her eyes to follow the road that cut through the little fishing village, then hugged the coastline until it disappeared around a corner.

“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Lyn. “The Gleaner’s about the only thing on the island that show up on time.”

That was the extent of their conversation. Apart from warning her about Kingston, Mr. Lyn asked no questions and offered no interference.

She sat on the secluded side of Mr. Lyn’s small wooden shop, which also doubled as a rum bar. Even though she didn’t expect to see her father in the village at this time of day, she wasn’t chancing it.

The rum bar and the tree-shaded sandy beach across the road were both empty. The beach lay empty of boats, the bar empty of men. Both were presently on the calm Oristano Bay waters, anticipating a good day’s catch.

A woman carrying a basket on her head full of breadfruit and yams came down the dirt path that passed by the rum bar. Cailin greeted her. “Hi, Miss Kitty.”

Turning her head enough to see Cailin, Miss Kitty remarked, “But what a way you look pretty today, Miss Cailin. Me like that blue color. It suit you.”

Cailin thanked her and watched as she took a right on to the main gravel road.

She sighed. There was so much she already missed about Oristano.

When the bus pulled up half an hour later, a man in a uniform opened the door and stepped out.

Cailin stood up with her suitcase and walked over to him. “Are you the Gleaner man?”

“That’s what them call me,” he replied with a ready smile.

She returned the smile. “Are you going to Kingston?”

“Yes, ma’am. After all my stops, we should get there by three o’clock this afternoon.” He turned the question on her, “Are you going to Kingston?”

“Yes, sir. Here’s the travel fare.”

“Well then, let me get your bag.”

The Gleaner man put her bag in the back of the bus, pulled out a stack of newspapers, gave them to Mr. Lyn, then opened the front passenger door and motioned for Cailin to get in.

Once seated, she turned and saw six people sitting behind her. Behind them were luggage, stacks of newspapers, and a crate full of chickens, which she identified as the source of the musky smell. She chuckled, thinking of the chickens she’d raised and how the smell would follow her all the way to Kingston.

Cailin settled in her seat, a smile spreading across her face. I made it, she thought. But almost immediately her father came to mind. Her smile fading, she turned her back toward the passenger window, made herself small in the seat. She didn’t want to be seen. She didn’t want to be caught in the final phase of her escape.

The bus headed in the direction of Oristano Inn, where Cailin knew her father had spent the last few nights. Her cotton dress clung with nervous sweat. If she could just get past the inn and the western side of Oristano Beach, she’d be safe.

The Gleaner man asked, “Why you sitting so low? Everything okay, ma’am?”

Cailin nodded.

On passing the far side of Oristano Beach, she sat up and exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The Gleaner man tilted his head, eyes lingering on her as if about to ask her another question.

Before he could voice it, she offered a small but friendly smile. “My name is Cailin. What can I call you?”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “Everyone call me Tooky.”

“Alright, Tooky.” She looked ahead at the road, her chest tight with longing for home and a flicker of hope for what lay ahead. “What can you tell me about Kingston?”

[1] Autoclaps - A sudden eruption of chaos sparked by a lone act in a place already bristling with tension.

This is just the beginning of Cailin’s journey, and I’m curious how it’s landing with you. Jump in on whichever question sparks something:

• Did Cailin’s choice to leave her mother behind feel authentic to you?

• How did the 1940s Jamaican setting and dialogue work for you? Did anything feel off or make you curious to learn more?

• What do you think will be Cailin’s biggest challenge in Kingston?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

Chapter 1, Scene 3: Lilla

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Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

Welcome! I'm excited to begin serializing my novel Up From Mountains. This is a brand-new work-in-progress, and in this post I'm thrilled to share Bashir's journey with you. Your feedback will help shape how this story unfolds!

If you haven’t already, you might enjoy reading my introductory post first. It explains the story behind the novel and why I’m serializing it on Substack.

Intro Post

After a seven-week voyage fleeing the ravages of WWI Lebanon, Bashir Najem seeks a better life in the New World and ends up somewhere he never expected to call home. Set in 1919, this historical fiction scene follows a young Lebanese man as he navigates a vibrant, multicultural world that will challenge everything he had hoped for his future. This is the beginning of Up From Mountains’ exploration of the themes of displacement, belonging, and the unexpected paths that lead us to our true destinations.

I'll be publishing new scenes weekly as I complete them. What I'm really looking forward to is engaging with readers in the comment section—it's a great place to share your reactions, ask questions about the story, and even influence how I bring the story to life.

I can't wait to hear your thoughts about "Up From Mountains."

Dedication

For Papa, Who loved me in your own special way. The older I get, the more I understand. See you at the East Gate. And for the memory of the countless thousands who died needlessly in the Mount Lebanon Famine of WWI.

Chapter 1, Mountains

They came from different mountains. Mount Lebanon, with its ancient cedars. Cawdor Mountain, keeping watch over the Caribbean Sea. Blue Mountain, shrouded in mist and coffee. Mount Royal, crowned with steel and green. Each carried what their hands could hold, leaving behind what their hearts could not.

Chapter 1, Scene 1 - Mount Lebanon (1919)

Bashir Najem leaned over the ship's rail, eager to disembark after his seven-week voyage. Between the salt air and coal smoke, he caught the scent of a warm breeze—moist soil and green foliage—he imagined came from the mountains spread out in the distance. This was his new country.

Below, passengers, mariners, and dockworkers moved like a weaver’s thread back and forth along the wharf. Like Beirut, the city just beyond the docks bustled with horses and buggies and the occasional car navigating the crowded streets. He had expected New York to be grander somehow, but perhaps his uncle had exaggerated the stories he'd heard from Lebanese immigrants.

Gathering his belongings from steerage and donning his flat cap, he disembarked the passenger liner. He made his way down the crowded gangway, carrying his small suitcase with a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. Weaving past passengers and dockworkers, he navigated around stacks of wooden cargo boxes stamped “Bananas.” Coming from the Mountains of Lebanon, he struggled with his English, but his intermediate French helped him translate the word.

His first instinct was to find a hotel to spend the night, and then he would begin looking for a job first thing in the morning. But it was still early afternoon, and he felt the pull to explore his new surroundings. When he reached the first cross street, he found it lined with stalls selling household goods, meat, produce, and food cooking on open-fire stone pits. The familiar smells of grilled fish and garlic put him at ease, while exotic aromas, rich, warm, and sweet, drifted through the air enticing him. The vendors, mostly dark-skinned women like the Africans he had seen in Beirut, called out prices to passersby. His stomach growled, but he would have to wait to eat.

After strolling past some of the stalls, he noticed more people and vehicles up the street and headed in that direction. When he got there, he found he was at a main intersection with a variety of people bustling about. Well-dressed white merchants in suits strolled among laborers of all skin shades in worn work clothes. Stylish white and light brown women stepped down from buggies while darker women carrying shopping baskets trailed behind them. A Chinese couple navigated through the crowd as a group of uniformed students roughhoused nearby. All were going about their business, entering and exiting substantial shops, quite different from the modest stalls he had seen on the previous street.

Bashir noticed a military man exiting a similar car he had seen the British military driving in Beirut. He thought it odd that such vehicles would be in New York, but the familiar sight was somehow comforting.

At the intersection, he turned left, heading farther into the city, noting the shops and businesses in which he could seek employment in the morning. His uncle had promised there would be Lebanese business owners, who would employ him.

As he continued up the street, he noticed in the window of a dry goods shop, below large English words, a smaller word he recognized, “مرحباً,” Mrhbaan. Welcome, in Arabic.

Pulling the screen door open, he smiled for the first time since leaving Lebanon. The mingling smells of cinnamon and cardamom greeted him. Looking around, he saw burlap sacks filled with lentils, chickpeas, rice, and bulgur wheat arranged in a row against a wall, tins of imported goods with Arabic labels on shelves, and dried fruits and flat bread behind a counter.

Behind another counter, he noticed a gentleman who reminded him of any number of men he knew in Lebanon.

Bashir said, “Ahlan^⁠1.”

The gentleman, who had been putting money in a till, looked up. His face brightened. "Mrhbaan! Ahlan wa sahlan^⁠2!"

Bashir smiled again, this time because of the familiar cadence of his native language.

He approached the counter, put his suitcase down, and spoke to the man in Arabic.

They conversed for some few minutes, speaking of their families back in Mount Lebanon. The man said he came from Amioun in the northern part of Mount Lebanon; Bashir told him he came from Marjayoun in the eastern mountains. The man and his brother had emigrated, and he missed the rest of his family, but the opportunities were much better in their new homeland.

The more they talked, the more Bashir’s shoulders relaxed.

They spoke briefly of the Turkish War and the devastation to the population of Mount Lebanon. Bashir’s face fell, and the man said they would speak of it no more.

He came from behind the counter, hugged Bashir, and said in Arabic, “Welcome to Kingston!”

Bashir stiffened. “Kingston?”

The shop owner let go of him. “Is something wrong?”

“This is not New York?”

“No!” The shopkeeper chuckled.

“What country am I in?”

“Jamaica. In the British West Indies.”

“Jamaica!” Bashir responded, eyes wide.

He stepped back, grabbed his suitcase, and headed for the door. Without another word, he burst from the shop and ran toward the wharf, his cap clutched in his hand.

He arrived at the dock to find the ship gone. He dropped his suitcase and spun around frantically, searching the harbor.

A dockworker, realizing Bashir’s predicament, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed past the end of the wharf. “See it deh.”

Understanding the man’s gesture, he looked where he was pointing.

Bashir could only watch as his dream of living in America sailed out of Kingston Harbor, the ship's gray smoke growing fainter with each passing moment.

2

“Ahlan wa sahlan” literally means, “Family and easy (circumstances)” but is better understood as: "You are among family now, so you can be at ease" or simply "Welcome!"

---

This is just the beginning of Bashir's journey, and I'm curious how it's landing with you. Jump in on whichever question sparks something:

• What was your reaction when Bashir realized he was in Jamaica instead of New York? Did this twist feel surprising or inevitable to you?

• I'm working on balancing historical authenticity with accessibility for modern readers. How did the mix of Arabic phrases, period details, and cultural elements feel to you? Anything that pulled you out of the story or made you want to know more?

• Bashir's story begins with displacement and unexpected destinations. What do you think his biggest challenge in Jamaica will be, and what are you most curious to see happen next?

Leave a comment

Note: Thanks for your feedback! All suggestions are advisory only; the story and rights remain fully Dale Mahfood’s.

Read Chapter 1, Scene 2: Cailin

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Subscribe now

---

Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

---

Background and Beginning

Before I start the chapter-by-chapter posts for my novel Up From Mountains, I want to share some important context and invite you to join me on a collaborative journey.

This serialization is different. I'm sharing Up From Mountains here on Substack to gather feedback from readers like you before final publication. Your comments, observations, and insights will help me refine and improve the novel. This is your chance to be part of the creative process, to help shape a story that explores the complex tapestries of identity, family secrets, and enduring love across cultures and generations.

The Story

A sweeping saga of hidden histories, cultural identity, and the mountains we must climb to find ourselves.

In the vibrant, evolving landscape of 1950s Jamaica, three young lives, each from a different “mountain,” intertwine amidst the lingering shadows of history and the promise of a new world.

Bashir Najem, a pillar of Kingston's Lebanese community, carries a hidden grief. Through quiet wisdom and secret poems, he strives to reconcile his traumatic past with his new life, all while raising a family to thrive in British society. His charming but restless son, Harry, chafes under his father's expectations, yearning for a life of engineering and poetry, yet finding himself drawn into a tumultuous love triangle.

Into this intricate world steps Cailin Campbell, a fiercely independent country girl who fled her abusive father on Cawdor Mountain. Determined to build her own future and rescue her mother, she navigates the bustling city, her methodical spirit and adventurous heart capturing Harry's attention. But then there is Lilla James, a captivating singer and nursing student of mixed Indian and African heritage, whose artistic passion and fierce ambition lead her to challenge societal norms. Both women capture Harry's affections, setting the stage for a dramatic rivalry.

Each of these characters must confront their identity, face betrayals, and ultimately define what truly constitutes family, belonging, and enduring love in a world striving for change.

It’s worth noting that Bashir is based on my Lebanese grandfather, Harry is based on my father, and Cailin is based on my mother; although the names have been changed and much of what happens with them is fictional. Lilla is a totally fictional character. I've sought and will continue to seek input on her characterization from Indo-Caribbean readers, writers and historical sources.

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About This Novel's Origins

Like When Trees Fall, the seeds for Up From Mountains come from my family stories, this time from my father’s side. My Lebanese grandfather's journey to Jamaica and the stories of the Lebanese-Syrian community's integration into Jamaican society have long fascinated me. The Mount Lebanon Famine of 1914-1918, a tragedy that claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, profoundly shaped the Lebanese diaspora, including those who found their way to Jamaica's shores.

I've woven together historical events, family memories, and fictional characters to explore themes of trauma, resilience, assimilation, and the complex negotiations of identity that immigrant families face. As always, this remains a work of fiction, with names, characters, and incidents either products of imagination or used fictitiously.

Historical and Cultural Context

Jamaica in the 1950s

The novel's contemporary setting captures Jamaica during a pivotal decade—the final years before independence, when the island buzzed with political awakening, cultural renaissance, and social transformation. Kingston emerges as a character itself: a vibrant melting pot where Lebanese merchants, British colonial administrators, Afro-Jamaican workers, Indian communities, and Chinese families all contribute to the island's complex social fabric.

The political landscape features the emerging rivalry between Norman Manley's People's National Party (PNP) and Alexander Bustamante's Jamaica Labour Party (JLP), while the cultural scene pulses with jazz clubs, talent hunts, and the early stirrings of what would become reggae music.

Lebanese-Jamaican

The novel also explores the Lebanese-Jamaican community's strategies for success in Jamaica: adopting English names, learning British customs, and navigating the delicate balance between preserving cultural heritage and embracing assimilation. These themes remain relevant today as we consider how immigrant communities negotiate belonging and identity. The Mount Lebanon Famine (1914-1918) was a devastating period during World War I and serves as the foundational trauma for the novel's patriarch, Bashir Najem. Caused by a combination of Ottoman policies, Allied blockades, and natural disasters including a locust plague, the famine claimed an estimated 200,000 lives, nearly half of Mount Lebanon's population. This and other historical tragedies drove waves of Lebanese emigration to places like Jamaica, where they built new lives while carrying invisible scars.

Indo-Jamaican

The novel will also explore the Indo-Jamaican experience through Lilla's family, showing how Indian indentured laborers and their descendants carved out their place in Jamaica's social hierarchy. Like other immigrant communities, they faced the challenge of maintaining cultural traditions—such as the Hosay Festival—while integrating into broader Jamaican society. Lilla's mixed Indian and African heritage reflects the complex realities of intermarriage and the sometimes painful family negotiations around identity and acceptance. Her family's disapproval of her artistic pursuits mirrors broader tensions between preserving traditional expectations and embracing new opportunities in a rapidly changing society.

These intertwining cultures finding their footing in 1950s Jamaica shape a story I find myself approaching differently than I did with When Trees Fall.

What Makes This Novel Different

Up From Mountains continues the Wood and Water Saga while standing as its own complete story. Readers of When Trees Fall will recognize Cailin Campbell, now a young woman forging her independent path in Kingston, but new readers can dive in without missing a beat.

Throughout the novel, short poems serve as windows into cultural exploration—both classical works and original pieces that reveal how characters navigate between their Lebanese heritage, British colonial influences, and the realization that beauty often springs from the least likely places. These poems aren't just decoration; they're how characters process their deepest struggles with identity, family expectations, and finding their place between worlds. One comes from my own father's writing, others from classical sources, and some I've created to capture moments that prose alone couldn't reach.

Your Role as Reader-Collaborators

As I post chapters weekly, I genuinely hope you'll engage with questions, observations, and feedback. Does the historical context feel authentic? Do the characters resonate? Are there cultural nuances I should explore further or adjust? Your insights will directly influence the novel's final form.

Dedication

Up From Mountains’ dedication: For Papa and for the memory of the countless thousands who died needlessly in the Mount Lebanon Famine.

Ready to Begin?

A new chapter will be posted every Wednesday. I encourage you to read with both your heart and your critical eye engaged. Together, we'll climb these mountains of story and emerge with something beautiful.

Are you ready to journey up from the mountains with me?

Read Chapter 1, Scene 1: Bashir

Leave a comment

Up From Mountains, Copyright © 2024 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida. This work-in-progress is being shared for collaborative feedback purposes prior to final publication.

If you enjoyed this post, please hit the ♡ button and consider subscribing to get my future posts delivered to your inbox.

Subscribe now