by Mhani Alaoui
Maryam’s clear voice cut through the heaviness.
“I know why I’m here.”
He looked at her. Yes, he realized, she knows.
“And yet you came?”
“In hope.”
“What?”
In forgiveness, her eyes told him. He stared at her with incredulity.
“Why are you here?”
“Your sons invoked illness and a dying man’s last wish to see an estranged daughter.” Then, with great simplicity: “You called me here. How could I refuse?”
Adam remained silent. His fingers tapped his knee as the words paraded in his head: utopian, idealistic, naive, foolish, impossible.
“Do you know what awaits you?”
“Yes. I’ve seen what lies beyond the door. But I can’t accept it. I refuse it.”
She fell silent. Her eyes had grown as large and blue as two full moons capturing the essence of all that lives. She put her right hand on her left shoulder, while her left hand rested on her leg: “I came, Father, as an act of love. Love is my revolt: Refuse the unjust, the unacceptable—that is love. Love is the yes secretly curled inside the perpetual no of revolt.”
Shawg’s heart beat like war drums before battle. Sweat appeared on her forehead, and the white of her eyes gleamed. She too had begun to sniff the evil beyond the door, already inside the house.
“That’s enough, Adam. Let her go before it’s too late. That’s enough. I command you to stop lest you regret it.”
“You don’t understand. They promised me my life back. My talent, my potential and squandered greatness. They promised to return to me what the Storyteller has deprived me of.”
“That’s enough. Only the devil can return a life spent, and what idiot trusts the devil!”
It was then that they heard a discrete cough. They turned and saw three men dressed in grey suits and felt hats, sitting in a tight row on the sofa recently occupied by Shams and Hilal, near the now flame-filled fireplace. No one had seen or heard the three men enter, nor did anyone know how long they had been sitting there listening to their conversations like an eager audience at a private play. They all looked exactly the same with their grey skin and pale eyes. They were holding handkerchiefs to their noses. Adam and Shawg, Shams and Hilal, and Maryam stared at the three men in disbelief. A peculiar strain of sadness had crept into the house in their wake.
“There is a terrible smell in here. It smells like orange blossoms.”
“Who are you? How did you come in?” asked Shawg.
They smirked professionally and adjusted their grey ties.
“Your husband, dear madam, Mr. Adam Tair, invited us in. We would never be so inconsiderate as to let ourselves in without a proper invitation.”
“What do you want?”
Only a man, she thought, would invite danger into his own home. Her detachment from Adam was now complete.
“Shut up, woman. Enough with the questions,” the second man responded, his voice harder, thicker than the first. “The tables have turned, companions. Now let them watch us.”
“Indeed. Let’s begin. We’ve heard enough,” the third man picked up.
And the first: “You have your three children around you. A child you left behind and two beautiful sons. You should be proud, Adam, Son of Man.”
They raised their voices:
“You’re all here. Good. We’ve waited a long time for this. It’s all thanks to your little father and his relentless ambitions. We’re going to ask you a question, a riddle in fact. Take your time. Answer carefully. A great deal depends on your answer. Here goes: A farmer on his deathbed calls his three children to his bedside. He had a daughter and two sons. This humble farmer was a great king in disguise. He said to his children: ‘I am a great king in disguise. I’m ill and about to leave this world. To decide who shall rule in my stead, I ask you the following question: If you were king or queen, what would you do with the vast domains I entrust to you?’”
The three men looked at Maryam, Shams, and Hilal, and they looked back.
“Well,” said the three men. “answer the question.”
“The question,” protested Shams, “is part of the story. Why should we answer when the answers are already known?”
“Are they?” chuckled the three men. “Answer! It’s an order. You must and you will.”
Hilal answered: “If I were King, I would rule my domains with equanimity. I would ensure food, health, and shelter for all. I would make sure everyone in my kingdom has a good life. I would be my people’s shepherd.”
Shams answered next: “If I were King, I would bend the land and its people to my will. I would build great palaces and a strong army. I would develop our economy and extend my rule over all the other kingdoms. My kingdom would be the greatest, most prosperous kingdom in the world.”
The three men turned to Maryam: “Answer, child. It’s your turn to answer. Time is running out.”
Maryam shook her head.
“I refuse to answer.”
“Oh, but you must answer. You have no choice.”
“I do, and I choose not to answer. There should be no distinction made between the three children. They should all be equal. And for them to be equal, they should strive for equality among them and among all things. Possessions are illusory. We bend things to our will thinking we bring good around us, but that too is an illusion. We own nothing.”
“We will give you one final chance: Answer!”
“I’ve given you my answer. There is nothing to be given or taken.”
The atmosphere in the room turned to ice. The flames in the fireplace became thin blue crystals. Water froze in the glasses, and the walls became porous.
“How dare you disobey us?”
“Your model is not my model. My answer does not satisfy you as your question does not please me.”
Adam began to tremble. Maryam had angered these dangerous three men, and they would surely punish him for her behavior. It was then that the three grey men revealed themselves for who they were. The grey suits, grey hair, and grey eyes disappeared, and there stood three sheepskinned, rough-eyed demons. They knocked furniture here and there, and raised their otherworldly voices:
“Yes, it’s her. We take her.”
“We knew all along. A game well played though. We know for sure now. It is she.”
“She’s ours. She’s coming with us to the dungeon to be tried and tried and tried again.”
“We won! Let it be known far and wide, Maryam Tair has been trapped, unmasked, defeated. Things will continue as before, since time immemorial. Nothing will ever change. Everything—everyone—will remain the same.”
“Adam, you will have your part of the bargain, ha! But we hear an old witch came to visit you before we did. Ever wonder how she knew you would do this to your daughter? Enjoy your returned talent while you still can.”
Cackles and darkness, darkness and cackles. They grabbed Maryam by the arms, pushed her head down, and stuck a long nail through her two palms before tying her hands behind her back. They pointed their steely claws toward the ceiling, and the apartment exploded around them.
But as they were about to disappear into the sky, a golden form, a bubble, light as air, delicate as a breeze, descended toward them. The bubble landed on the exploded rooftop, blocking any escape. Inside it was the grandest creature anyone ever saw. She was so grand one couldn’t determine whether she was male or female. She was divine. She was dressed in shimmering gold and silver. On her forehead lay a crown of pearls, lapis lazuli, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies. Her fingernails were long and sharp, and for those who could see past her blinding light, they were not fingernails, but the most exquisite of writing pens. Behind her were two women: one as old as the world, and the other as young as the new day. The three descended, their legs crossed, their hands on their knees, their thumbs and fingers touching at the tips in three perfectly executed lotus poses. The older woman and the younger woman spoke, and their voice
s were filled with joy: “Behold, Sheherazade is among you.”
Sheherazade stood in front of the three demons who, in her presence, looked once more like three banal bureaucrats.
“Tricksters, devils…thieves! Do you still think no one is watching you? I, Sheherazade watch you. And you have missed one fundamental detail.”
“What? We miss nothing. We are trained in thoroughness. We leave nothing to chance, no stone unturned.”
“You’ve missed the paradox.”
“Paradox?”
“A paradox, you ignoramuses, is the existence of a contradiction. It is a portal, if you will, through which the most extraordinary of things may come to pass. So listen. Maryam is your prisoner. But mind, you’ve captured her in the only moment you could have: the moment when she revealed herself fully to you. But by revealing herself, by baring her soul to you all, she has done more than fall into your base trap. She has earned all of her powers: perception, thought…and now heart. These three powers were her birthright, and she has rightfully earned them. She is invincible.”
“What good will her three powers do her now?”
“You will soon find out. It’s time you familiarize yourself with uncertainty and doubt.”
She turned to Maryam and took her head in her hands.
“Here, my beloved daughter. Here you have earned your third power. Through the perception of good, the understanding of moral principles, you have reached the highest of powers. For your kindness, your empathy, your courage, here is the third and the greatest of all powers: heart.”
She kissed her on the mouth and eyelids, and whispered in her ear: “I will ease your pain. Soon, your physical suffering will be but a sad memory of the violence of this world.”
Holding Maryam in their steely claws, the demons then flew into the sky, screeching and bellowing their hate and frustration.
Before leaving, Sheherazade turned to the stunned family of four, their pretense at normalcy shattered once and for all. Shawg and the twins were looking at Adam with a shocked expression on their faces. Sheherazade circled around Adam, her eyes filled with pity and compassion.
“A man lost in such a world. Such a beautiful talent and soul, crushed by adversity. What a waste. Know this: through your betrayal you have revealed your daughter to the world. No one can deny now that Adam had a first wife whose name was Leila, whose deeper name was Lilith, that they were equal in every way and together had a daughter called Maryam.”
She then turned to Shawg.
“Misunderstood friend, estranged sister, tender enemy. Take care of your boys. Love and cherish them and forget about the transcendental you guessed but never grasped. Forget Maryam Tair. She will never belong to you.”
Finally, she took Shams and Hilal in her arms: “Youth, strength, beauty...enjoy it while it lasts. Your story will soon be told.”
Al-Batina
The Old King turned to his first and favorite child: “Tell me, my daughter, what would you do if I were to bequeath this kingdom to you?” The daughter, whose name was Al-Batina, which in Arabic means “she who is hidden,” hesitated. She loved and respected her father dearly. But she knew that she couldn’t give him the answer he was hoping for. “Abi, Father, oh my love, I do not want these lands, for they are not yours to give. They belong to the animals, the ebbing tides, and waxing moons. They belong to the changing seasons and to the men and women who borrow its gifts. There is no need to decree a dominion, for these lands are stateless, beyond our words and frontiers. They are to us as we are to them. I cannot take anything from you except the love you’ve given me.”
The Old King’s heart broke. For a thousand and one days, he sat on his heavy iron throne without eating, sleeping, or uttering a word.
After a thousand and one days, he called his three children, Cain, Abel, and Al-Batina, and informed them of his decision: “…My sons, I have not eaten or slept. Know that my decision has been a difficult one, but now it is made. I love you both dearly, but neither one of you will be my heir…My daughter, you ask that I leave this earth without a trace. You ask that I submit in every way. You ask that I believe there is no violence or desire for power in any living being. You ask that I bend my will to the will of the world. You ask that I return the tides, seasons, winds to their original balance. My heart breaks. The future you are condemning yourself to is an uncertain and insecure one. But I can still know truth when I see it, and I choose you as my heiress.”
And in the kingdom of Al-Batina everything was laid to rest: her crown was laid to rest, weapons and power were laid to rest, and the people swore an oath to uphold freedom and equality among all creatures, be they of this world or the other, and of all living things. And the word “kingdom” disappeared from the people’s tongue.
Sheherazade is standing in front of the fridge with a big plate in her hands. She fills it with cakes, pastries, cheeses, fruits, nuts, and every kind of food she can lay her hands on. The young woman, her disciple, waits until she has eaten everything on her plate.
“I trust you enjoyed your food?”
“I’m binging. I’m extremely nervous and unhappy. I may just need a holiday, a breath of fresh air, a cool gin-and-tonic, and the Indian Ocean of my childhood.”
“Your last stunt must have exhausted you.”
“I think I’m...depressed.”
She pouts.
“That’s a good one!”
“No, I mean it. It’s almost the end. I’m having withdrawal symptoms.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m not glad it’s almost the end. What’s ending by the way?”
“My role.”
The younger woman smiles tenderly. Then a shadow passes over her face.
“I have a question that keeps me up at night. It’s about Maryam. She could have engaged in heroic actions to change the course of the world. Instead, she chose to come to an old man’s house, a worthless father, no doubt, in her eyes, and she let him trap her.”
“She did what she believed to be right. That comes first.”
“What happened to Adam?”
“Adam died soon afterwards. But not before he felt his talent rush back to him. He was sitting at his desk writing a mathematical proof when he died. Other people say he died of a broken heart.”
“What do you think?”
“I can’t be sure. Shawg believes it was Aisha Nassiri’s black magic. She is beginning to understand Aisha. Her feminine powers are on the wane, her sons have left the country. She is alone with her regrets and the memory of her relations with men. She has begun to understand why some women resort to murder or the black arts. Women with Shawg’s beauty and intelligence rarely need to resort to such stratagems, but it’s good she understands. Perhaps she will learn to surrender her bottomless cravings.”
“And the twins?”
“Shams and Hilal are another story. The mark of Cain, the mark of greed and murder, will not be on Shams alone. Hilal also will bear its burden. They have seen the most primal of betrayals, and they were its unsuspecting agents. Their egoism engineered it. All I can say is that what will one day happen between Shams and Hilal was sealed on that fateful day. They watched, motionless, as the demons took their sister Maryam away. A piece of them broke that day. But of course I can’t be sure.”
“What do you mean? You are the creator of these tales.”
Sheherazade smiles her enigmatic smile.
“Is that what you think? Do you not think there are other sources? That these stories are there waiting only to be told...”
“You are the center that holds. When you begin your stories, you are transformed, and I hear the omniscience of your voice.”
“You see nothing wrong in me?”
“I have come to see that you are far from perfect. However, you have been blessed with the gift of stories, and though it may be unfair, knowing you are, well, mad, I can’t deny the transcendence of your voice.”
The two women fall silent. The younger woman is thinking o
f the blithe madness of Sheherazade’s voice, and suddenly she understands.
“The storyteller chooses to be mad and to tell her crazy story in that chosen state.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She is waging a war against omniscience. Madness is her tool.”
“It’s her prized possession.”
“Yes, Old Mother.”
“In this century, madness is a necessity. Consciousness is split, it has exploded like the overextended threads of the spider web. The center no longer holds, and stories come at you, intricately intertwined, fragmented, and faded. I went mad to adapt to these times.”
“Must mortals go mad as well?”
“They are survivors, these mortals. With the help of the djinns and the ghosts in the technology, they have created a portal into the world of stories. This portal, the Web, is a powerful storytelling tool. The clicks, the dizzying falls and ramifications of endless stories and fragments. Nothing gets lost, nothing gets transformed. There are no originals and no copies. It’s all derivatives, reactivated at will, at whim, or even unknowingly. It’s the end of the age of books and physicality. One click and it’s forever there, in limbo. Everything is exposed, everything gets hacked, chopped, disarticulated, deterred. It re-enchants the banal. I fear that soon, I, Sheherazade, will not be needed anymore. The Web will replace the storyteller. The story of Maryam may be the death of me.”
“Old Mother, you are needed. You are the tie that binds.”
“The world doesn’t want to be tied down. It wants to explode.”
