by Mike Allen
When even the carriage-driver had been slaughtered, they drew the valuable northern horses aside. That done, the leader went swaggering and laughing to Qirisn. “And what are you? Not much, for sure. Yet a woman, I will grant you that.”
Perhaps she had gone mad in those minutes. Perhaps she had only been mad from the instant she fell in love.
She addressed the bandit reasonably, without fear or anger.
“You cannot touch me. I am meant for a king.”
“Are you? His loss then. You shall have me and my lads instead.”
The storm watched, missing no detail of what was next enacted at the foot of the dragon’s backbone. In the lightning, flesh blazed white, or golden, or grew invisible; blood ran like blackest adders, or inks of scarlet or green. Cries became only another melodic cadence for the thunder and the gale. Storms frequently carried, and carry yet, such crying. Who can say if it is only imagined, or if it is the faithful report of the elements which, since time’s start, have overheard such things.
At length, no one was there beneath the rock, but for the dead and Qirisn. In her, one ultimate wisp of life remained, although swiftly it was ebbing. Come away, life whispered to her urgently, come away, for you and I are done with all this now.
But Qirisn’s eyes fixed on the sky of storm. The gods had forsaken her, love had, truth had. Worse than all these, she must now forsake him.
Something in her screamed in mute violence, a wordless, unthought prayer to the sky. Which, pausing, seemed to hear.
The cacophony of the cloud settled to a kind of stasis. The flutter of the lightning fashioned for itself another shape, that of an electrum knot. From this, long strands extended themselves, like searching arms. Long-fingered hands, resembling tentacles, reached as if most delicately to clasp the world. Then, from the core of heaven, a levinbolt shot downward. A flaming sword, the white of another spectrum, struck deep into the ground, at the spot where Qirisn lay dying. And after this it stood, the bolt, joining heaven to earth, pulsing with a regular muscular golden spasm. It fused all matter, sand and soil and dust, body and bone and blood, together in a disbanded union of change. Then the sword diluted and was gone. Everything was gone. And darkness sank into the space which was all the heaven-fire had left.
It is said, and possibly only Jandur, those twenty years later, propagated such a tale—for he was secretly a romantic—that hours on, when the storm had melted, demons came up on to the Harsh to enjoy its refreshment under a waning moon.
Passing the spot, those beautiful dreamers, the Eshva, paused only to sigh, before wandering away. If Vazdru princes passed, they paid no attention. But two Drin, the dwarvish, ugly and talented artisans of Underearth, did halt beside the silicate residues of Qirisn’s death.
“Something is here worth looking at!”
But a desert hare, a female, gleaming platinum under the watery moon, and with ears like lilies, galloped over the dunes. And lust stirred up the Drin at such loveliness, and they vacated the area to pursue her. Such a master was love, then, for demons, and for men.
4. The Fourth Fragment
That very moment, as he entered the highest vortex of pleasure, Razved heard his phantasmal partner call out his name in her joy. It was not a moment otherwise for anything, let alone for thought. Nevertheless, it seemed not inappropriate she should know his name. Then the colossal wave bore him through the gate and dashed him among stars, and after that flat on his back again amid the pillows, with a maiden of glass gripped in his arms.
Only now did he unwillingly feel the chill and ungiving texture of her unflesh, and sense the folly, and maybe the error of what had just been done.
Only now also did he understand it was, after all, not exactly his name that she had called aloud in her voice of glass.
No, not Razved, that was not the name she had uttered. It had been Raz Vedey. Raz Vedey, my beloved lord.
Drained by ecstasy, stupified by confusion, Razved lay there. There rushed through his befuddled mind a memory of his mother, who had slain herself before ever he had known her, and of an old man locked up and enchained in a dirty room below. Down there, amid the irons and the skittering of rats, that was where Raz Vedey might be located.
In his mind, Razved asked of himself, Whatever she is, what would she have with my father?
Because, of course, the mad old man, who constantly escaped his imprisonment, but who haunted Razved even when safely stashed away, was that father, that very Raz Vedey.
Razved himself knew well that, along with a disgraced mother who had cut her wrist and died, he had a male parent who, while yet young and strong, the victor in a southern war, had one night, during a galvanic storm, started up shouting that his soul had perished in the Vast Harsh. And who, despite the subsequent care and attention of the best physicians and maguses, quickly became and stayed entirely lunatic. Razved, growing to maturity, was reared sternly by tutors, and when only thirteen made the regent of his father. Since then Razved had ruled the city, but without full authority and without the essential title of King. For did the King not still live? The city’s moral code forbade his removal save through natural decease, and crazed though he was, the King ungraciously refused to die. Razved, to be sure, had engineered a clutch of clandestine attempts upon the wretch’s life. All of these had failed. Yes, even the strong poison, or the block of stone cast from an upper roof. It was as if, Razved had long decided, his devilish sire awaited some news, or even arrival, and would not himself depart the world until assured of it. His constant wail: “Are they here? Are they near?” seemed infuriatingly—or piteably—to confirm this last suspicion.
The Prince’s eyes now remained tightly closed. He was partly afraid to open them, for the fragile weight of her still lay over him. What would he see? What must he do?
“Remove yourself from me,” he muttered, but there was no reaction.
Instead his brain brimmed suddenly with uncanny images—a glassy girl, shimmering green and rose, who drifted through the chamber on feet of glass, and her eyes, curiously, were dark, and gazed at him and did not see him. Perhaps they saw nothing, for they were made—not of eyes, nor of glass—but of pain, of agony, and of despair. A bride, brought forth from the carcass of Harsh Desert, the true meaning of whose title was The Illegitimate Vessel, a bride who had died in horror and waited in blind lament for two decades, next entering the city of her lover, her beloved, and mistaking for him one who was flesh of his flesh, if never spirit of his spirit. Where now then for her? Where else was there to seek or to fly?
On Razved’s skin the glacial glass turned to ice, and with a howl he burst from his trance.
He bounded off the couch, slinging the succubus-creature from him, and opened wide his eyes. And in that instant he saw and heard a shattering of glass—as if a million crystal windows had blown in and whirled about him.
“Help me!” yowled Razved, King-in-waiting, descendant of warrior-lords, spraying his robe with the waters of his bladder. “Assassins! Demons!”
But when his terrified servants entered, they found him quite alone, not a mark upon him, and on the floor by his couch only one little plain drinking goblet, smashed into bits like sugar.
* * *
Qirisn was now finally and fully dead. Free therefore, she glided through the wall of the prison-chamber and stole quietly to King Raz Vedey. She touched his ravelled face, and looking up he saw her, her light hair and blue-midnight eyes; he saw her soul. And shedding his ruined mind and form, he came out to her, strong and young and beautiful as he had been in Marah, and kissed her hands and her lips. After which they went away together, wherever it was and is that lovers go, after physical death, when they are two halves of a faultless solitary whole.
But in the red dawn, when someone came to tell the Prince that his father had abruptly departed the world, Razved buried his head in the pillows and wept, over and over: “At last, at last, I am the King.”
THE FISH OF AL-KAWTHAR’S FOUNTAIN
Joanna Galbraith
In the fountain of Faris Al-Kawthar’s courtyard swim eight orange goldfish who sing jubilant Os as they reel round and round. Weaving amongst water plants, reeds green as tree frogs, they seldom pause to breathe, just to reach a higher note. They never smile as they sing for what fish ever does? They just stare, eyes unblinking, though their gills burst with song.
The fountain in which they swim is as old as the earth. Made from three ribbons of rare, Parian marble, it is shaped like an olive, the curve of a woman’s eye. At each end is a tap that has been fashioned from worn brass and in the middle is a stone spout wrought in the shape of Anahita. It is from here that fresh water springs eternally to the sky. High and then higher still, it is reaching for the stars.
The fountain is celebrated but not for its fish; though a fish warbling Don Giovanni would surely be celebration enough. No. Its fame is of a quiet sort; not of the kind to attract hoards and yet its reverence is well-known throughout the lands which surround it. From the glittering alleyways of Souq-al-Hamidiyya to the cypress hills of Qala’at Salah ad-Din; from the riverbed of the Euphrates to the ramshackle port of Tartus, it is venerated; it is celebrated; for being the source of all life. Not directly, one understands, for it does not sow any seeds but rather it is the source of all rain, it is the source of all water. Every storm, every raindrop, has been conjured in its pool before being thrown into the sky by the mighty spring of this fountain. Propelled into the air where the clouds take their shape, its water is the sweetest thing that any child will ever taste. It brings life to arid soils; it brings life to withering crops. It is a life-giver to all people.
It can be a life-taker as well.
Visitors are frequent though they come on their own: a grateful farmer, a curious boy, an irrigation engineer. They never come in frenzied masses; they are calm, deliberate sorts.
Scientific in their thinking, methodical in their approach; they come because they must know; they seek to understand, how it is that a humble fountain can be a weather goddess as well.
* * *
Now Faris Al-Kawthar’s courtyard is a kaleidoscopic whirl of mosaics, mother-of-pearl mirrors and painted pottery from Tell Sabi Abyad. Green vines dangle from internal windows and the circling balcony above; and latticed doors lead to small rooms with high ceilings and dawdling fans—some fans are so slow they are turning with the earth.
Elaborate tapestries hang from the courtyard walls, Islamic whisperings of Allah’s peace; they are the first thing a visitor admires when they walk through the front door, followed by the immaculate floor, the green vines and the fountain of course.
* * *
It is Faris Al-Kawthar himself who tends to the fountain. He keeps the marble spotless. He knows that he must. Dirty water must not reach the skies or else it will fall dirty too.
He can only scrub it with his bare hands; he cannot use any other products. Once he used bleach and the sky rained acid for days after.
* * *
He is a young man, Faris, beautiful and lean.
His eyes are graphite-coloured; they burn like bright diamonds. No one can possibly believe that someone so beautiful might ever suffer from loneliness, even though he is without family, without a wife or his own child.
How could any man ever feel lonely when people are always coming?
Coming to Faris Al-Kawthar’s courtyard to gaze upon his fountain; coming to thank him specially for tending the fountain the way he does.
* * *
But Faris is lonely; he is lonelier than forgotten bones.
* * *
A baker from Hama once offered him a bride but Faris declined politely, saying he was waiting for true love. It is difficult though, he admits, to believe that true love will ever find him when the only women who come visit him come to see the fountain first. Smart, educated sorts who are interested in gravity; Faris does not want a scientist; he wants a dreamer for his wife.
* * *
The eight fish in the fountain pool can sense their Master’s great loneliness. They see it in his face as he quietly tends to their water garden. They feel it in his skin when he dips his hand in the water and they nibble at his fingertips with their open, songful mouths.
They know he cannot hear them but they hope all the same that somehow their jubilant songs will fuse into his bones. For even fish know that a good melody can get caught under a man’s skin. Frank Sinatra’s life-affirming My Way seems to do it every time.
* * *
It isn’t just their Master’s loneliness though that is disturbing to these fish.
Of late they have heard rumblings in the thunder overhead that all is not well across the lands which surround them. They have heard complaints that the rain is far more bitter than it is sweet and that its drops are so heavy that they are bruising all the harvests.
The fish can see it for themselves too as they reel round and round. Their water has become murky, the reeds are slowly dying. Their Master has stopped caring in the way that he should. He no longer scrubs the fountain in exact, watchful detail; his attempts are half-hearted. It seems that his loneliness has repercussions far beyond himself. The fountain is suffering, so too is the world.
* * *
“We must save the fountain,” the fish cry. “Before it is too late.”
But if the fish are to save the fountain then they must save Faris Al-Kawthar first.
* * *
“Let’s stage an intervention,” says the biggest of the fish.
“Yes, an intervention,” trills another in a perfectly pitched high C.
The other fish nod their heads in approval—at the idea and the splendid C.
“Come,” says the biggest fish. “We must all think as one. Perhaps if we all think together we can come up with a plan.”
It is difficult though for the fish to come up with a plan because they are not known for their acumen and their brains are very small. They huddle closely together so their heads are almost touching and as they think they sing Puccini’s Humming Chorus because they find it helps them to stay focused.
“Well,” sighs the biggest fish eventually when no plan is forthcoming. “Let’s break this down a bit. Perhaps that will help. Let’s start with what it is that we think needs an intervention.”
“Faris Al-Kawthar’s loneliness,” the smallest fish volunteers.
The other fish murmur in quick agreement; the smallest fish is right.
“And how do we solve that?”
The fish huddle closer, they hum a little more fervently as well.
“We must find Master Faris a wife,” croons one of the fish suddenly.
All the fish nod together and blow delicate bubbles in unison.
“But how,” they all ponder as they huddle closer still. Eyeball to eyeball, they are willing on a plan.
“We must think outside the fountain,” the biggest fish finally suggests. “We’re not going to find his wife in here. Our world is far too small.”
The other fish shake their heads. The biggest fish is right. How are they ever going to find the right woman if they are stuck inside a marble bowl?
“I know,” says one of the smaller fish thrashing his tail about with glee. “I shall swim right into the fountain spring so it flings me high into the air. Then I can take a look all around me to see what I can find. Perhaps if we can see outside the fountain we will think outside it too.”
The bigger fish think it is too risky but the smaller fish is adamant. His life may be at stake but so too will many others if they don’t cure Faris Al-Kawthar of loneliness before it is too late.
* * *
The smaller fish wastes no time, he is an impetuous sort of fellow, and with one enthusiastic flick of his golden tail he flings himself into the fountain’s path. The other fish gape below as he spins away from their world. They try to muster up a buoyant song to send him on his way but only silence follows; they are too nervous for a song.
Meanwhile the smaller
fish is being thrown high and higher into the air. He is somersaulting and twirling, flipping head over flapping tail. He is terrified and exhilarated; he has never seen so much colour. He can’t believe anything has ever existed beyond sky blue and reed green.
Very soon though he is descending towards the fountain pool, finally slipping back underneath its watery surface with barely a splash from his spun tail.
“Are you alright?” the fish ask anxiously, crowding all around him.
The smaller fish nods his head; he is too winded yet to speak.
“What is the world like? Did it give you new ideas?”
“No,” the fish confesses finally catching his breath. “It was all a bit of a blur but I did see a little boy standing by the front door. He was talking with Master Faris while they shared a piece of bread. You should have seen how the boy smiled when he saw me flipping through the air. I think Master Faris saw me as well because he started smiling too.”
“Master Faris was smiling?”
“Yes, though it was only very slight.”
“Well, then you must do it again if it makes Master Faris smile.”
“No,” replies the biggest fish. “This time I shall go. I have bigger eyes than our smaller friend here. I shall be able to look around a little more. Making Master Faris smile is important but curing his loneliness even more so.”
The other fish nod their heads; they can see wisdom in his thoughts and without another word the biggest fish has disappeared—an orange rocket to the sky.
A few seconds later though, he returns with a choppy, violent splash; it seems he lacks the flying finesse of the smaller one in the air.
“Quickly,” he pants. “Start swimming in circles. Master Faris and the boy are coming. They want to see what we’re up to.”
