Dunya lost her breath, but the Sultan did not react in any visible way. And Zahra continued her tale.
Ali Baba grieved for his brother, but he also knew that the bandits would want to track down whoever had taken away Caseem’s body and stolen their gold. Though his grief was terrible, he noticed that the dead man’s slave had dry eyes and a clear head. So Ali Baba took Morgiana into his counsel, explained their dire situation in full, and trusted her to choose the best course to outwit the bandits.
The thieves’ leader, eager to reclaim his stolen loot, asked for a volunteer to trace the man who had found his way into their stronghold. The bravest of the thieves eagerly accepted the task. The young man traced the gold to Ali Baba’s house, and under the noonday sun marked Ali Baba’s door with chalk, so that the thieves could find it again at night. But clever Morgiana, who shirked from no task, outwitted the thieves by marking every door in the district with chalk. The bravest of the thieves was executed for his stupidity.
That thief’s brother, eager to restore the family honor, volunteered next to find Ali Baba’s house, and the stolen gold. He successfully retraced his brother’s route, and chipped away a piece of the stone stair leading to Ali Baba’s door. But Morgiana saw him, and she had tools of her own. She wasted no time, chipping away at the stones of every house in the neighborhood, and a few others besides. The thief tasked with finding the door was also executed, and presumably joined his brother in eternal frustration.
But on the third time, the bandit leader took the task on himself. He found Ali Baba’s house, and he memorized every part of the door and its location, so he would not forget it. And on that very night…
At that very moment, the rising sun entered the chamber. Zahra fell silent.
Dunya had leaned close to the storyteller, hanging onto every word, and, now that the words had ceased, hanging on to silence. Even the Sultan was sitting on the side of the bed, his eyes wide and staring.
“What?” the Sultan said. “Go on! What happened next?”
“My Lord, I do not have time,” Zahra replied, dropping her eyes. The bold elocutionist had vanished, replaced by a meek, obedient, perfect wife. “The sun has risen. It is time for my execution.”
And so it was. Already the guards to the bedchamber were assembling to escort the Sultana to her doom.
The Sultan strode to Zahra and, seizing her by the shoulders, shook her. “You will finish the story! I am the Sultan! I command it!”
“But Sultan, the story will take hours. You have many duties that await you. Even now, I hear the call to prayer.” Zahra’s voice was reverent, pious, and quiet. “You will likely need breakfast, and a short rest. My lord, I assure you, I would rather die than cause you the slightest inconvenience.”
They stood there, at a stalemate, until Dunya had an idea. She said, “My lord? You could spare her—my sister, that is—for today. And she can finish the story tonight.”
She dearly wanted to know what became of Morgiana and the forty (now thirty-seven) thieves.
The Sultan paused, then leapt upon the idea. “Spare her? Yes. Yes! I will spare her. Guards!”
The guards, and the Grand Vizier, entered the chamber, much surprised when the Sultan pointed to Zahra. He commanded, “Keep a watch on this wife of mine. See to it that no man enters and that she does not leave this chamber.”
“But what about the sentence of execution?” the Vizier asked, cautiously.
“For today, it is suspended. But only for today.”
The Sultan left at once. The Grand Vizier, Dunya’s father, remained. He looked to Zahra, and then to Dunya. “Who is this woman?” he asked his daughter.
“She arrived in the night. She’s saved my life; that’s enough for me to trust her.”
The Vizier looked at Zahra.
“Do not be afraid,” she told him.
But the Vizier seemed to be quite afraid. He followed after his Sultan.
When the men left, Dunya breathed easily again. She took breakfast, and promptly fell asleep.
She woke up in the afternoon, wondering where she was. Then she remembered Morgiana, and her heart ached, but Zahra was in the bedroom with her, standing by the window. So Dunya forced herself awake, to face the day. She ventured past the door of the bedroom, past the tall black guards. She stepped slowly and fearfully, but they did not stop her. So she found her way to the kitchens, and politely asked the chef for food.
The chef, charmed by her manners, let her take whatever she liked. So she piled a plate high with her favorites—nuts and dates, spiced lamb pies and pickled beets. She had had a very trying few days, she told herself, and deserved something nice.
She took her food back to the bedchamber, and offered some to Zahra.
Zahra was reading a scroll, and did not appear to have rested at all, but she was still as beautiful as ever. She took two dates and two almonds, but refused any more, thanking Dunya for her kindness.
When the sun set, the Sultan returned. He threw himself on the bed and commanded Zahra, “Now, you will finish the story!”
“Of course,” Zahra said, smiling again.
She resumed the tale, and Dunya listened, rapt, as Zahra told how Morgiana outwitted the bandit leader yet again. The leader prepared an ambush, setting thirty-seven vast oil jugs in Ali Baba’s house, each jug holding a bloodthirsty thief. But Morgiana heated olive oil until it was boiling, and, with no mercy or hesitation, filled the jugs, one by one, with the oil. The bandit leader caught the stench of burning flesh and fled in terror, never to bother Ali Baba again.
To honor Morgiana’s guile and courage, Ali Baba set her free—but, Zahra added, Morgiana still worked in the household of Ali Baba, for after all, how could a slave possibly expect to navigate the wide world, with the sudden gift of freedom?
“Quite so, quite so,” the Sultan said, nodding at the addition. “Slaves and dogs are kept close, for their own protection.”
But the story wasn’t yet finished. With a rich costume for disguise and a dagger at his waist, the bandit leader returned to Ali Baba’s house, with revenge on his mind. Ali Baba, giddy with his new wealth, welcomed the man, but Morgiana recognized the bandit leader. She dressed as a dancer, with a dagger of her own tucked away. After dinner, she presented herself as the evening’s entertainment. With a simpering smile, she spun and twirled closer to Ali Baba and his guest of honor, while the music rose and the flames flickered, until, with a gleam and a short cry, her dagger found its place in the bandit leader’s heart. Morgiana ceased her dance and, with a bow to Ali Baba, drew off the bandit leader’s disguise.
In awe and in gratitude, Ali Baba embraced Morgiana as his daughter, and gave her a daughter’s share of his fortune. And they all lived quite happily ever after.
The Sultan thought that to be a needlessly romantic ending, but Dunya was almost ready to cry. She was so happy to hear that Morgiana—even a Morgiana within a tale—had won her freedom, and a high place in the world. And Dunya’s heart eased, a little, from its grief.
“Would you like to hear another tale?” Zahra asked.
“Yes!” said Dunya and the Sultan at once.
And so Zahra began another tale. This tale was about a fisherman of Sri Lanka, a man named Kharoush, whose wife was never happy. His wife’s name was Shirin.
One day, the couple met a talking fish, which promised them three wishes if they would grant the fish three favors in return. And those favors involved seeking revenge on a djinn, and giving a sword to a princess, and finding a tree that was an enchanted woman… each leading to more adventures and stories. And Shirin’s cleverness and sharp tongue got her into trouble as often as it got her out of it, but she learned to temper her anger, and her husband learned to curb his greed, and before the story was over, they had learned to live together in love and respect. And so they did, Zahra assured them, for many years.
Except, this story did not take a night. Right when the djinn swore
it would kill Kharoush and Shirin, the sun rose. Again Zahra halted the story, pleading that it was time for her death. Again, the Sultan delayed her death, and hastened, in an evil mood, to the affairs of his Kingdom. It took three nights to complete the tale of Shirin, Kharoush, and the Talking Fish, and by then Dunya had an understanding of Zahra’s plan.
By the time Dunya had been married to the Sultan for three weeks—and he still paid her little heed—her father, with the Sultan’s other advisors, approached her to congratulate her on living so long.
“That cunning woman may not be the rightful Sultana,” Dunya’s father said to her, “but her stories, of which you told us, seem to be doing no harm. But they are not doing any good, either.”
Dunya asked her father what he meant by that.
“The Sultan is growing more distracted,” he explained. “He is paying less and less notice to the affairs of his Kingdom. If you could persuade him, as his wife, to talk to us, his council of viziers, that would do a great deal of good…”
“He barely notices me,” Dunya told them. “He sees Zahra as his wife.”
But her father waved a hand, already turning away. “You have kept your head this long; you’ll find a way to bring it up to him.”
That night, when they were hearing the tale of Yasmeen (a bawdy and comic tale, when Dunya heard the Sultan laugh for the first time), Dunya broke into the action by timidly asking the Sultan if he could consider turning his attention to the affairs of state.
The Sultan grew wrathful. He cursed her in every way he knew for daring to interrupt. By the time he was finished, Dunya was trembling and pale and certain she would die. He finished with, “If you are so intent on the affairs of the Kingdom, you can run them, you presumptuous worm!” He turned his back to her, and commanded Zahra to proceed.
So she did. Dunya, meanwhile, recovered from her fear, bit by bit. In the morning, she sought out the viziers, and told them that the Sultan had given her permission to judge on his behalf.
The other viziers did not quite believe the diminutive Sultana, but her father reminded them that she had survived being married to the Sultan for a month.
So they confided in her the secrets of state.
Dunya had no idea how a country should be run, but she remembered her grandmother’s wisdom. This was the place she had reached in the world, however briefly, and she must grow to meet it. She listened to her advisors, and learned all that she could from them. But she wondered, privately, was that truly enough?
After she had finished the tale of Yasmeen, Zahra began another tale. This was about a king who liked to disguise his royal station, and wander among the people of his city. He was visiting the poorest, dirtiest section—the Jewish ghetto—when he heard a song of joy coming from a humble shack. Inside he found a shoemaker named Lironi, whose faith and joy in her God were great, and who trusted in her God to carry her day by day—
“Why is it always a woman?” the Sultan demanded. “Your stories are always about women. Why can’t you tell a story about a man, for once? Or can’t you think of someone unlike yourself for a full minute?”
“But this story does have a man in it,” Zahra explained, so meek and mild. “It has the King.”
The Sultan continued to argue, before eventually capitulating and letting her resume her story, but Dunya had had an idea.
The next day, after her by-now-habitual morning nap, Dunya shed her royal garments and disguised herself as a peasant. She slipped into the kitchen, told the chef of her plan, and followed the man into the city as he shopped for the day’s food. Dunya fancied herself very like the Sultan within Zahra’s story. She trod carefully, and followed the chef closely, but did not find out enough for her liking. So, the next day, she went back.
Over the course of many days, she went back into the city, visiting slum and ghetto, fountain and park, learning more and more about the people, and how they lived and thought. Long after the Jewish shoemaker Lironi had won out against adversity, and she and the King had gone off singing, arm-in-arm, Dunya continued to roam the city undetected. In the palace, her new knowledge informed her decisions. Now her ideas frankly alarmed the viziers, but she held fast to them, and owned to whatever consequences resulted, good or bad.
When Dunya asked questions of the common folk, she received sound common sense in return, and was treated to long histories of neighborhoods and neighborly disputes. When she listened closely to their words, (and noticing when they were silent), she heard whispers of fear, fear of the Sultan. All that Dunya heard, she kept to her heart.
She learned almost as much from the common people as she did from Zahra. Zahra’s tales enchanted Dunya, repeating themselves in her head when she was awake. She found more to learn from them, and more to wonder at, the more she thought of them.
What had begun as tenuous days turned into weeks, then months. After a year, her father and the other viziers were quite used to reporting to Dunya instead.
All the while, Zahra never left the royal bedchamber but continued to invent incredible stories. She allowed the Sultan to take her, but never seemed dimmed by his violence, although she always sent Dunya away before those encounters.
As for the Sultan…
If a person had met him, and not realized whom they met, they would have thought him a man most distracted. A child unaware that they were in the presence of the Radiant Keeper of the Kingdom, might ask their mother why the strange man had so many dark circles under his eyes. If a person did not know who he was, they might have thought him mad.
But he was the Sultan, so no one thought him mad.
“Eccentric,” his viziers explained.
“Passionately devoted to his new wife,” the courtiers assured themselves.
“As prime and fit as ever!” boasted the generals and officers. “As keen as a lion!”
The Sultan, although he had technically given permission for Dunya to make judgments in his stead, never quite recognized her presence. When he was awake enough, he would stumble into the meetings of his viziers, banning this visit, or vetoing that military action. Anything that would take him from the Capital must be avoided, he said. He would not miss a single one of his wife’s stories.
After Zahra told her three hundredth tale, the Sultan was finally persuaded to take a hunting trip. The courtiers missed the countryside, and he needed to unwind. He departed, giving a list of terrible edicts towards his wife. If she left her bedchambers, she died. If she talked to any man, she died. If she was heard laughing from outside the bedchamber, she died.
Zahra only smiled her enigmatic smile when the rules were explained to her. She lowered her head and murmured that her only wish was the Sultan’s command.
The seventh night after the Sultan was away, and Dunya was enjoying having the run of the bedroom to herself, Zahra stood up, wrapped her black veil around herself, and vanished. Dunya went from room to room but lost sight of her. She curled up on the bed, very alone and starting to be afraid again.
She awoke when Zahra re-entered the bedchamber.
“Do not be afraid,” the woman said. 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, colored blue as marble, but growing warmer by the fire, taking on a human color, and beginning to squirm and 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.”
And Dunya did not ask any more questions.
After seven days, the Sultan returned, and he was proud to find a son in his wife’s arms. The son was named after his own father, and the baby thrived.
The Kingdom celebrated, the viziers breathed a sigh of relief, and the succession was secure.
The baby grew, and Dunya attended to him with what spare time she had, but that was not much. She was very busy, for she continued to go into the city and listen, and in the afternoons she attended to the affairs of the Kingdom. She was beginning to learn to manage her responsibilities quite well.
Zahra’s tales continued, growing ever more wondrous. Now she told of Sinbad the Sailor, who told the stories of his seven adventures to his doting but doubtful mother, Zammurud.
Every day the Sultan delayed Zahra’s execution, and every night he continued to speak to her as if she could be killed for the first impetuous word. But her words were never impetuous; they were elegant and beautiful, and her tone was always perfectly meek.
After two years, Dunya was still afraid of the Sultan, but some other emotion frequently eclipsed her fear. It took some time for her to name it as annoyance. The Sultan thought only of himself; he never had a kind word, even for his son; was impatient about the meanest trifles, and was petty and belittling in his speech. Aside from the threat he posed to her life and the life of Zahra, whom she counted as a dear friend, he was simply an aggravating man to live with. Gradually, irritation began to win over her fear.
One morning, after the Sultan had left them, Zahra looked at Dunya very keenly, and said, “You are not very happy, are you?”
“No,” Dunya admitted. “How should I be? Every minute my life, or yours, is in grave danger, relying on the whims of a violent and small-minded man. The Crown Prince grows daily, but I do not have enough time to attend to him and to the Kingdom. Which is more important? The city and the Kingdom, or the happiness of one little boy?”
“That is a good question,” Zahra replied, smoothing back Dunya’s hair. “The little boy is happy. He is in the care of kind people who love him, and he is learning fast. I think that I shall give the Sultan another child.”
Soon after this, the Sultan went on another hunting trip, and again Zahra vanished by night.
The Ninety-Ninth Bride Page 2
