“So that is the answer to my wish? Nothing will help, because the Sultan does not wish to change?”
“You could attempt a purchase,” Upalu said, “But be warned. If someone seeks to change another against their will, that is always wicked magic. It corrupts the soul. The price is always high, and not paid in gold. Take that advice from me, if you would take nothing else.”
This was a heavy consideration. Finally Dunya said, “I don’t want to traffic in wicked magic.”
“Then you have limited your choices,” the djinni replied, “But I think you will not regret it.”
“What about you?” Dunya asked. “At the height of your powers, could you heal the Su—my husband?”
After a while, Upalu shook her head.
“Then I’ll find another djinni, one who can. There must be one in the city.”
“Few would come to the Palace,” Upalu interrupted. “Djinn like myself prefer to work with the powerless. It is our delight to balance the scales of the world, not to give our power to those with power of their own. Besides, I do not think the Sultan is ill, to be healed.”
“Then what is he?”
“I think you know. He is, quite simply, a very bad person.”
Dunya sighed. “That is too simple an answer. It cannot be changed.”
Upalu shrugged.
There were trumpets behind Upalu.
“What could that be?” Dunya asked.
“Not my problem,” was the djinni’s cheerful reply.
“Where will you go?”
Upalu looked around the empty harem “I think I will stay here.” Upalu crossed the room to a metal brazier, which stood empty of kindling. “It’s quiet. And no one lives here, do they?”
“Not anymore,” Dunya said in a small voice.
“I’ll stay here. I’ll find fuel. You’d better go see what those trumpets are about.”
“Very well,” said Dunya. She got to her feet, and was surprised when Upalu enveloped her in a hug, feverish warm, but close. Dunya hadn’t realized how starved she was for a little closeness and friendship. She hugged Upalu back, gently.
“Go and see about those trumpets,” said Upalu gruffly.
From outside they heard, “Announcement by order of the Sultan! Come all and hear!”
Dunya went, saying to herself, She’ll leave eventually. Everyone leaves.
Sultan Sayyid was standing atop a balcony, with Zahra at his side. Courtiers and servants, paused in their work, looked up at him as he said, “Subjects! Shout the good news and dance in the streets, for my wife has promised me an heir!”
“What?” Dunya whispered.
Dunya hurried to the Sultan’s chambers, where she found a crowd of people. Zahra was propped up on pillows, with doctors and attendants on either hand. She looked very satisfied with herself. At her feet there was an astrologer, explaining a cursory horoscope for the new heir. And by the window was the Sultan, pacing as usual, with his five Viziers.
“Tomorrow, we shall go on a lion hunt,” said the Sultan. “Pelts shall cover the cradle, and I—I could use the exercise,” he added with a laugh. “See to it that my queen is conveyed in the proper style and comfort.”
“Your queen?” asked the Vizier of Trade. “Surely she will rest in the Palace, in her condition.”
“No,” said the Sultan, with a glint in his eye. “She’s a strong brood mare. She has promised me stories, and I will not leave those stories behind. She will attend on me, or else.” He spotted Dunya. “Oh, and you can come, as well,” he said to her. The Viziers turned to her in surprise.
She was just as surprised as they. It seemed a long while until the last doctor finally cleared out—it was late twilight by then. The Sultan was gone for a moment, and Dunya knelt by Zahra’s side. As the woman sat up, Dunya asked her, “You’re really going to have a child?”
“I have promised, haven’t I?” Zahra asked.
“But women can’t promise that. Any number of things could go wrong.”
“I know.”
“How can you promise that? And, how did you even manage with the Sultan. He’s so repulsive,” Dunya shuddered.
“It is my duty as a good wife,” said Zahra. “And you may trust me when I make a promise, little one. What’s with that look?” she asked. Dunya was scowling at her.
“I don’t understand you. I don’t know what you want by being Sultana—and now you’re going to have a child? I don’t know what game you’re playing. I don’t even know who you are.”
“I am who I am. And that is enough.”
Dunya suddenly felt very small. And instead of feeling sad, she felt angry. She got up and stormed away to her own small chamber. Which, she realized, might no longer belong to her upon the arrival of Zahra’s promised heir.
Dunya fumed as well as she could. After a time, she heard Zahra call for her. “It’s time for the stories.”
Zahra finished a story that night and began a new one about a man named Sinbad. Sinbad was a sailor who had been on seven voyages, and he (as Zahra told it) was relating his adventures to his doting but doubtful mother, Zummurud.
She listened to Zahra’s stories faithfully that night, and the next, and the night after that, which Zahra told on the road, in a caravan fit for a king. Dunya admitted to herself that the stories were thrilling as anything, but something irritated her, and it only grew as the stories went on. For every adventure of Sinbad, there was a ship that foundered, or a companion carried off by a Roc or a manticore. The stories went on, and they arrived at the hunting grounds.
The first full day at the lion’s grounds, the Sultan spent riding with his men. That night, he was so tired that he was nodding off, even during the story. Only Dunya was really awake to listen. That night, Sinbad’s ship foundered for the seventh time, and for the seventh time, all souls aboard were drowned except for Sinbad himself, and Dunya clenched her fists and bit her tongue.
But Zahra stopped talking. She looked directly at Dunya and asked, “What is the matter?”
“I don’t like Sinbad,” Dunya began. “I don’t like these stories.”
“Why not?”
It took Dunya a moment to put into words precisely why. “Why is it,” she asked, “That Sinbad survives every one of his journeys, but each one of his shipmates must be dashed upon the rocks, or die in a sea monster’s gullet? How is that fair? You’re cruel storyteller, Zahra!”
“Dunya...what are you really angry about?”
“You! You intervened with the Sultan for me, when I was due to marry him. Why did you not come sooner? Why did you not save Morgiana? Or Shirin? You tell stories about them, that’s wonderful, but they’re still dead. Why didn’t you save them? Or even F—”
“Don’t say her name.” Zahra pressed a finger to Dunya’s lips and darted her eyes towards the drowsing Sultan.
Dunya thought of the first Sultana, she with the yellow fall of hair, and was sad.
“It was not my choice,” was Zahra’s soft answer. “I do not have free will. That sets me apart from djinn, and from you. My choices are made for me.”
Later, it would occur to Dunya that this was a very strange thing to say. But right now, all she said was, “Well, whoever made that choice could have saved ninety-eight lives, and chose not to...” Tears dripped down her face.
Zahra took Dunya’s hand, and with a little tug, Dunya’s head was in Zahra’s lap, and the older woman was stroking her hair. “I am sorry. For what it is worth, I am sorry. And you know? I think Sinbad was sorry, too, for all of his friends that he lost.”
“Maybe,” said Dunya. “Do you want to continue the story?”
“It’s late. I would rather rest.”
Dunya said goodnight and crept out of the tent.
She stood blinking in the chilly wind, as dawn began to light the eastern horizon
and stars blinked around her. It was so quiet, here, compared to the city. Yet, Al-Rayyan had begun life as land like this, graced only by the presence of a river.
Dunya huddled into her tent and tried to sleep, her head spinning with stories and the feeling of the wind on her face.
She couldn’t sleep. It was strange. Her pillow felt rough against her cheek. Stray breezes whipped across her hands. She began to remember, step by step, a city she was no longer in, a city she had wandered through and not even noticed at the time.
She remembered the Palace harem. She remembered Morgiana, the touch of her hands. She remembered the color of Shirin’s eyes. She remembered the smile of the Sultana with yellow hair. And she cried for a while, remembering the three of them.
Eventually her tears stilled, and the sunlight came through her tent’s flaps. She thought about Upalu, sitting in a brazier in the silence of the harem.
“I thought Upalu wanted to leave,” Dunya murmured to herself. She finally could feel herself growing sleepy. “But maybe she stayed because there was another wish she could grant. I wished for a friend. Maybe I’ll have one.”
When Sinbad’s mother, Zummurud, said, “Well, those are six fine adventures and no mistake. But before you tell me of the seventh, perhaps you should listen to me tell some tales of my youth, if you have the stomach for them… ”
“But, Mother,” said Sinbad, “It was on my seventh and last voyage that I learned of the greatest wonder that our God has devised.
“My diplomatic mission to Ceylon was a success; on my voyage home, I sailed through a calm sea, when a storm blew in, apparently out of nowhere. The ship capsized, and the terrible water carried me to a rocky shore. I awoke to find myself on the edge of a golden city, gleaming with the images of wings and hawks. I traveled to the palace of their king; I impressed him with my wit and the tales of my adventures… ”
“God did well when He blessed you with a silver tongue,” remarked Zummurud.
“Yes, He did, Mother. I stayed in the city as a guest of the king, and I was able to witness what I thought was a miracle: at the new moon, the people of this city shook off their clothes, gave a great shudder, and transformed into birds!”
“Did they?”
“Yes, and I wished to fly with them to see the world from on high. I did not think further ahead than my next thrilling sight. The king himself carried me up, up, up, until I was looking down from a heavenly vantage point! Such a delight! I praised God out loud—and before I knew it, the king let me go, and the people in flight set upon me, breaking my fall again and again with blows and curses. For this was a city of devil-worshippers, who had wedded themselves to demons for six generations. They would not stand to hear the name of God.
“I landed badly, and I tried to give thanks that I was alive. But it is hard to give thanks with a raucous, distant laughter in your ears. Yet I was blessed, for a good woman named Lina found me. She took pity on me and took me to her father’s house, where she tended to me and told me her story. She and her father had come to the city as refugees, fleeing war. They had arrived and stayed, with nowhere else to go. They had resisted worshipping devils along with the rest of the city and accrued some small wealth as merchants.
“I hope you will not think me improper, Mother, when I said that they could come home with me, to Baghdad.”
“Not improper in the least, my boy.”
“It was a harder task than I had thought to leave the city, for when he resumed his human form, the king was all smiles and apologies, acting as though he had been my friend the entire time. The people wanted me to stay, wanted, I think, for me to join their ranks and disown my religion. I might have stayed—I was so weary of voyaging, and still weak from my fall—had Lina not been by my side. She and her father had resisted their false friendship and empty promises for so many years. And Lina was determined to see Baghdad. She sold the items of their household, and we purchased a small boat, and by what I knew of sailing, I managed to take us to the nearest port city of good, God-fearing humans. And from there we voyaged to Baghdad. And, Mother, may I speak freely?”
“Do you not always, my son?”
“I learned to admire Lina for her tenacity and her prudence. I learned to love her for her goodness. I have beheld the greatest wonder that God has made, and it is love. I wish for Lina to be my wife, but I would like you to meet her, first.”
“I should very much like to meet this young woman. Where is she?”
“She is waiting in the other room, waiting for your permission, with all the patience that her nature permits.”
The Mermaids’ Parlay
The royal party returned to the city after a successful hunt. Over the next several months, every day held a new preparation for the coming of the heir. Dunya got used to the presence of doctors and attendants in the royal chambers. She would go into the city, often accompanied by Upalu, to get away from the little crowd.
Zahra had successfully asked for Dunya to retain her own little room. In there, by candlelight, she composed her weekly letters to Munir, which she composed faithfully and sent off, and there she also treasured his irregular but lengthy replies.
When it was time for Zahra’s stories, she could always count on the Sultan yelling at all of the attendants to give him the space alone.
It was amazing, really, how long Zahra had held out. Dunya’s sleep schedule had adjusted to the rhythm of falling asleep in wee hours of the morning and waking in the early afternoon. She couldn’t imagine how Zahra maintained this.
Then came the night of the full moon. As usual, the Sultan began his tirade when evening turned into night:
“Every one of you, out of my sight! You’ve bothered me long enough, now you’ll bother my best one, my queen, my entertainer? Out! Out! Nothing you have is so important it can’t wait.”
Dunya settled in her corner, knowing she didn’t count as one of the crowd. She was invisible, an empty presence. And she quashed a sting of annoyance at what a—what was the word—what a petty tormenter the Sultan was.
Perhaps Zahra was also annoyed tonight. As soon as the attendants had left, she coaxed the Sultan out of his ill mood.
“You shouldn’t take out your temper on them, sire,” she said. “They mean well. They only want the best for us and the child.” She put the Sultan’s hand on her stomach. “Meet good intentions with goodwill.”
The Sultan grumbled something in response, something Dunya didn’t hear.
“You’re tired. Rest a bit before I tell you tonight’s story. It will be all you dreamed of and more.” She began to sing, then, a soothing melody that made Dunya’s eyelids flutter shut. The Sultan stretched himself out on his bed and said, “Wife, since when have you been a singer… ” He was asleep before he finished the sentence.
Dunya nearly nodded off, but pinched her cheek to stay awake. “Zahra, you have a lovely voice… ” she said, and when she opened her eyes, Zahra was gone.
“Oh… ” Dunya grew awake again very fast. The Sultan was stretched out and fast asleep on his bed. Dunya investigated every corner of the room. “Zahra?” she whispered. “Zahra? This isn’t funny.”
She pulled on her blue headscarf and hurried throughout the Palace, to the library, the gardens, even the harem—anywhere she thought Zahra might have gone.
She returned to the Palace bedroom and sat at the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Zahra somewhere on the grounds. She began to feel afraid again.
She awoke to the sound of footfalls. Zahra re-entered the bedchamber.
“Where were you?” Dunya demanded, sitting up.
“Do not be afraid,” said Zahra, without looking at her. She hurried to the brazier and began to draw off her veils. A soft cry filled the room. Dunya drew closer and saw a baby in Zahra’s arms. He was a sad little thing, stained in blue, but he took on a ruddier color by the fire, and began to squirm a
nd cry.
“What have you done?” Dunya asked.
“I have given the Sultan a son,” Zahra replied.
“I do not think that is the usual way that Sultans acquire sons,” Dunya said, now very confused.
“Nor is this the usual fate for a stillborn child of the steppes,” Zahra replied, “Yet here we are.”
Dunya did not ask any more questions.
Nor was she entirely surprised when, in the morning, every attendant seemed to remember having been present for a straightforward birth that produced a healthy little boy.
The Sultan, of course, was prouder than a peacock. He named his son after his own father, Almas. Obligingly, the baby thrived. And with the succession to the throne secured, the Kingdom breathed a collective sigh of relief.
One day, ten days after the birth, Dunya had the dream again—someone trapped in the river under the Palace, crying and crying. She was supposed to take Upalu out today and had an idea.
Dunya met with Upalu in the empty harem. The djinni was in her now-comfortable human form, contemplating the disorganized chess pieces on the rug before her. Dunya had long ago forbidden Upalu from tasting the lacquered wood with fire—“Just a bit of fire, Dunya! Oh, all right”—and Upalu had no patience for the game itself.
“Come on,” Dunya said, “We’re going to the river today.”
“The river? You keep me waiting for hours to tell me we’re going to the river?” Upalu rolled her eyes and groaned, but Dunya was already heading towards the servant’s door, tucking her headscarf around her chin.
“Today will be a special day. We’re going to go to the First Gate, where the river meets the walls of Al-Rayyan. I have an inspiration.”
“Since when do you follow inspiration?”
“Since when are you so cynical?”
“Oh, only for the past five or so centuries. Before that I was as pure as a lily and as silly as a bird.”
The Ninety-Ninth Bride Page 10
