The Ninety-Ninth Bride

by Catherine F. King

  ***

  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 could not forget that the bandits would want to track down whoever had taken Caseem’s body away. His grief was terrible, but 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 of action to outwit the bandit leader and his thirty-nine thieves. Morgiana shirked from no task, no matter how gruesome, but the thieves were also fairly clever.

  The leader of the thieves, 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. Then as the sun set, Morgiana marked 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, joining his brother in eternal frustration.

  But on the third try, 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 on to 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.

  “Well?” the Sultan asked. “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 Sultan’s guards 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 my Lord, 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 and low. “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-eight) 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. Dunya drew back at the sight of her father.

  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, and Dunya felt relief sweep through her. She clapped her hands to her mouth and might have laughed out loud were it not for the presence of her father. He was looking at Zahra, and his next words stunned Dunya speechless:

  “You are a lucky, lucky woman, Your Highness.”

  “Highness?” Dunya repeated.

  Shareef looked at her. “Dunya? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in the harem?”

  “Don’t you remember, Papa?” asked Zahra. “I asked Dunya to come with me and listen to my stories. If she were not here, I might not be alive.”

  Now Dunya fell silent, while she watched her father chuckle and shake his head at Zahra, as he’d done at his eldest daughter’s wedding. “If you say so. Pray to the Almighty that your luck continues.”

  “I am not afraid,” she said.

  Vizier Shareef looked between the two of them, and then the Sultan yelled for him from down the hall. The Vizier left quickly, and Dunya got to her feet. Her head was spinning.

  “You,” she said to Zahra. “You are not the Sultana. I am. I am sure of that.”

  “Good. Certainty is a virtue in a young lady.”

  “And you—you might be my father’s daughter,” she allowed, “But you are certainly no sister that I know. Why did you say that you were? Why did my father know you?”

  “I am known to all,” said Zahra. “And memories are an easy thing to confuse.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You do not need to. Not yet. But rest assured: as long as you are my sister, you will live.”

  At those words, Dunya was afraid again. She could almost see the executioner’s blade glinting in the light. “I want to live,” she said, “I’ll call you my sister, if that’s what you want. But I’ll remember… ” she trailed off.

  “Good. Remember the truth. And now, I suggest that you sleep.”

  Dunya tottered, suddenly exhausted. “Yes. Sleep.”

  There was a little chamber adjoining the grand Sultan’s bedchamber. Zahra guided Dunya into this room, while Dunya asked, “Has this always been here?” Soon Dunya was lying on the bed, her thoughts unraveling. She felt a deep happiness at being alive, being sleepy—hearing the songbirds, lying in the sunlight, feeling the breeze and the sounds of the Palace coming awake. Then she slept.

  The Storyteller

  Dunya 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 guards. She stepped slowly and fearfully, but they did not stop her. 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. 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.

  Dunya, however, was not satisfied by this good act. She observed Zahra closely for sometime. Then she went to the window and looked down. A sheer drop of white stone greeted her. It would be impossible to climb up.

  Dunya sniffed and fidgeted, pondered Zahra, and contemplated her own change in fortune. She was happy to be alive another day, no question about that, but there was something almost too lucky about Zahra’s arrival. One reversal of fortune—married to the Sultan!—was paired with another—the Sultan was insane! And who was to say that this one—mysterious stranger at the last possible moment—wouldn’t be paired with a price that was even worse?

  Best, then, to be prepared. Dunya decided to go on the offense, springing questions on Zahra like a hunter with his traps—all equally ineffectual.

  “When did you sleep?” she asked Zahra.

  “When you slept,” Zahra replied.

  “How did you enter the Palace?”

  “By the front door.” />
  “Did you bring any robes other than those black ones?”

  “I did not.”

  “How long will you stay here, then?”

  “For as long as I am needed.”

  “With only one change of clothes? Why those robes, then?”

  “They’re comfortable and I like them.”

  “But why are they embroidered all over with little silvery eyes?”

  Zahra regarded the fabric. “I think they’re pretty.” And, well, Dunya could hardly argue with that.

  “Have you left this room at all today?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the Sultan commanded that his wife stay here.”

  “You are not the Sultan’s wife,” Dunya said. “I am.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I don’t want to be, but I remember. Where did you come from?”

  “God created me.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “I thought it was a good idea.”

  “That’s not an answer! If you don’t give me any answers, I’ll have to make up my own.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Dunya leaned on the bed and stared hard at Zahra, her imagination working as hard as she could make it. “You are from a noble family which has lost all of its money in recent generations. You grew up poor, but proud, and very clever. With no suitors on your hand, you turned to mischief. When you heard of Sultan Sayyid’s madness, you thought, ‘Aha! Here’s a challenge worthy of my steel.’ So you prepared your stories, climbed the castle walls… snuck in past the guards… I don’t know.”

  “That was enjoyable. Tell me another one when you invent it.”

  “Tonight, the Sultan will return. Will you continue Morgiana’s story?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how will you survive when that is done?”

  “I have a plan.”

  Dunya frowned. By now she was restless, so she bid Zahra good afternoon and went to wander the Palace. She avoided clumps of people, and passed long hours in a fine, open garden brimming with ponds and lotuses. After evening prayers, she found her way to the Palace’s dining hall, where the Sultan, the courtiers, and the Viziers took their supper. There was plenty of food for her, and when dinner was finished, she followed the Sultan up to his chambers.

  There they found Zahra, sitting by the window. The Sultan threw himself on the bed and commanded Zahra, “Now, you will finish the story!”

  “Of course,” Zahra said, smiling again. “But first—Dunya, come sit by my knee.”

  Dunya knelt by Zahra, and she felt a peculiar rapture when Zahra looked down at her and picked up the tale.

  Morgiana outwitted the bandit leader yet again: The leader prepared an ambush, setting thirty-eight vast oil jugs in Ali Baba’s house, each jug holding a bloodthirsty thief. But Morgiana heated a vast amount of 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.

  To honor Morgiana’s guile and courage, Ali Baba set her free—but Morgiana still worked in the household of Ali Baba, for after all, how could a slave possibly be expected to navigate the wide world, with the sudden gift of freedom?

  “Quite so, quite so,” the Sultan said, nodding at the comment. “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, craving revenge. Ali Baba, giddy over his new wealth, welcomed the man, but Morgiana recognized the bandit leader at once.

  For a disguise, 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 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 villain’s disguise.

  In awe and in gratitude, Ali Baba embraced Morgiana as his daughter, and gave her a filial share of his fortune. And they all lived quite happily ever after.

  The Sultan thought that to be a needlessly sentimental 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. With this, 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 story…

  There was once a girl of the steppe, whose dowry was her sharp tongue and three bundles of fleece. This daughter’s name was Shirin, and she wanted a wider future for herself.

  Shirin lived with a large family in the middle of the lonely steppe. One year, on the coldest day in winter, a great Falcon the size of a horse landed before the herdsman’s hut. The Falcon demanded to speak to the herdsman. The Falcon told the herdsman that he would grow rich and prosperous if he would give her his youngest daughter to be the Falcon’s own friend.

  The herdsman, not being a sentimental sort, agreed to this. Shirin was sad to say goodbye to her family, but when she looked up at the Falcon she could see her future opening up, and it was with a willing heart that she climbed aboard the Falcon’s back and held on as they flew away.

  The Falcon took Shirin to a magnificent house high in the mountains, where the wind piped music all day and the walls were always warm. The Falcon instructed Shirin that she was to be granted all the freedom of the lady of the house, but when night fell, Shirin must obey strict rules—the first and last of which was that she must not look at the Falcon herself, after nightfall. Shirin, pleased with her new estate, agreed to these rules at once.

  The days passed pleasantly. Shirin relished the freedom of her new home and, in the evenings, sitting behind a screen in a semi-lit room, the Falcon would join her for readings of poetry and sips of wine. In the morning, the Falcon was always gone.

  For a time, Shirin was happy with her new life. But she began to grow bored with the solitude, and she missed the presence of her many siblings and the family she had left behind. And although the Falcon grew dear to her, Shirin turned vexed that she could not see the Falcon at night—when she was sure that her hostess changed shape.

  After a year and a day, the Falcon took pity on Shirin’s loneliness and promised to take her back to her family for a visit, but warned her, “Only listen to them with half a heart.”

  But Shirin was feeling contrary, and when her sisters warned her that the Falcon was planning on eating her up, and her brothers warned her that she was living with a monster, she listened with all her heart. Her sisters gave her a lamp, her brothers gave her flint, and her mother gave her a knife. Concealing all three, she returned to her home with the Falcon in the mountains.

  In the palace of the Sultan, the sun rose.

  Zahra fell silent once again. The Sultan’s guards were late in arriving, as if anticipating that they would not be needed. The Sultan told them that he would send for them when he required their services.

  “You are a good tale-spinner, wife,” he said to Zahra. “And you… ” he growled at Dunya. “Leave me in peace. I need to get some sleep before I get to work.”

  Dunya left him, and she slept herself. When she awoke, she went down to the Palace dining hall for lunch, and then retreated to the great Library, to exult in its thousands of books and even read one or two. But she was quick to return to the Sultan’s bedchamber at sunset. Zahra was sitting before the mirror, combing out her hair. She had washed and dressed in a deep blue gown, one that suited the station of a Sultana.

  “You seem very comfortable in
this role,” said Dunya, crossing the room to sit on the bed.

  “What role do you mean?” Zahra asked her.

  “The Sultana. Some girls are raised all their lives to become Sultana. Were you one of them?”

  “Not precisely.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “I was raised to be a servant,” Zahra said, “if you can believe that.”

  Dunya narrowed her eyes at Zahra, trying to imagine her in the livery of a household servant. “That’s hard to believe. I have another question. Where do you get your stories from?”

  Zahra merely glanced at her.

  Dunya went on, “Do you know that the women in your stories—those are the names of women from the harem. Women who died. Do you know that? Why are those the names of women in your stories? Where do your stories come from?”

  Zahra was silent for a moment, then she said, “I believe in honoring the dead. As for my stories, they are reflections of the world that we know. Most stories are. These stories reflect the world as it might have been, had things been different.”

  “You mean you make them up.”

  “If you say so.”

  “That’s not to say that I don’t like them,” Dunya offered, after a pause. “I do. I like them very much. I really like not dying,” she added, “but your stories make me think of the women I knew. And that makes me happy.”

  “I really make you happy?” Zahra asked, turning to look at Dunya. She was smiling, and it was a peculiarly earnest and winsome smile.

  “Your stories make me very happy. I just hope that Shirin doesn’t play the fool and end up in a bad way.”

  “You’ll see,” was Zahra’s response.

  The Sultan came into the room at that point, and Dunya went silent. She posed herself at Zahra’s knee, and said, as if by rote, “Sister, will you please continue last night’s story?”

  “Of course, little Dunya,” was Zahra’s reply. “So… ”